


The Clutch of Life and the Fist of Love

by PrettyLittlePoutyMouth



Category: Glee
Genre: Ethics of Infidelity, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Infidelity, Semi-Ethical Nonmonogamy, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyLittlePoutyMouth/pseuds/PrettyLittlePoutyMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Rachel gets an upsetting diagnosis, Quinn does what she can to keep Rachel happy and to keep their marriage running. For Faberry Week Day 3: Marriage. Only canon compliant through Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We’ve both been very brave, walk around with both legs

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This fic deals with infidelity and the ethics thereof. If infidelity, even arguably ethical/justified, is not something you can keep an open mind about, if it makes you very uncomfortable, for both our sakes, skip this one.  
> Seriously. Don’t read something you know you’ll hate, or you know will upset you.  
> Also, it deals with death. So. Angst warning.

“Hey, sweetie, I’m home!” Quinn steps into their little house, wiping her feet out of habit on the mat in the threshold.

“I’m in the kitchen!” Rachel calls back.

“Oh, dear,” Quinn murmurs to herself, and steps cautiously into the kitchen, prepared to be faced with a mess. She’s relieved to find that Rachel is just making tea, and nothing appears to be on fire. She smiles, “Tea for two?”

Rachel grins, “Certainly! Peppermint?”

Quinn considers, “Earl Grey,” she decides. Rachel nods and brings down the appropriate tea box and another mug. “Good timing,” Quinn comments.

“You’re the one who had good timing. This was just supposed to be for me. Peppermint to stimulate my creative process.”

“Working on a new song?”

“Trying to. It was a good distraction while you were at the doctor. Which, by the way, you haven’t told me anything about, but you’ve come home in good spirits. So, nothing too bad?”

Quinn accepts the hot mug of tea and breathes in the steam before answering. “No, nothing too bad. My back is…well, obviously the condition of my back isn’t ideal. The old injury is causing my muscles to pull to try to keep my crooked spine in alignment, which is what’s causing the pain. They recommended heat, massage, painkillers, and daily stretches and exercises.” She looks sheepish, “Basically the same stretches and exercises I should have been keeping up with all along.”

“Quinn!” Rachel scolds, looking horrified.

Quinn holds up her hands, “I know, I know. I was young then, and starting college. My back wasn’t bothering me, so it didn’t seem important at the time. Of course I regret it now.”

“Well, we’ll just have to make sure you keep taking care of yourself,” Rachel says sternly. She lifts her mug to her lips, but it shakes halfway there, and she’s forced to put it back down.

Quinn watches the movement skeptically. “Too hot?”

“No,” Rachel picks up the tea again and takes a sip. Quinn sips her own tea carefully.

“So what’s your song about?”

Rachel smiles a little, “It’s still in the conception stages,” she tells Quinn, but nonetheless, she finds lots to say about its conception, occasionally stumbling over her words in her excitement.

“Well, I’d be happy to let you get back to working on it,” Quinn says, “I could use a few quiet hours to work on a new essay.” Quinn has been writing with some success for the past several years, and has discovered her niche is memoir. Like most memoir, it’s only about 75% true, and is all about finding the absurdity and humor in the mundane and the tragic. She easily admits that David Sedaris is a big influence, and with some aspects of her life, it’s easy to find tragedy and melodrama to draw from.

“Not yet,” Rachel smiles, “I want to finish my tea date with you first.”

It’s almost a perfect moment, and Quinn smiles at her as she takes a sip, but the moment is ruined when Rachel chokes on the sip of tea. She sets down her cup and thumps on her chest, coughing.

Quinn would laugh, except that this has been happening too much lately. “Speaking of the doctor,” she says carefully, “When are you going to go?”

Rachel’s expression darkens, “I’ve been sick one day of my life, Quinn. There’s really no need.”

“If that’s true, then a physical won’t hurt you,” Quinn answers mildly. Rachel shrugs stubbornly, her mouth thinning. “Come on,” Quinn coaxes, “I went. We have decent insurance right now. It will be fine.”

Rachel meets her eye, “Prove to me that you can keep up with your stretches and exercises for two weeks and you have a deal.”

Quinn sighs, but it’s totally a fair deal. “Okay. Deal.”

It’s not a big deal. Quinn fully expects Rachel’s physical checkup to be fine.

She just wants to make sure.

 

It takes Quinn three weeks of near-perfect back upkeep before Rachel is satisfied, and she finally calls to make an appointment for a checkup two weeks out. Quinn makes sure her schedule is clear for the day so she can accompany Rachel; while Quinn prefers to visit the doctor alone, she has a feeling that Rachel will need company.

Quinn maintains her aura of calm in the waiting room, where she placidly flips through magazines while Rachel waits next to her, on the edge of her seat, anxiety betrayed by her inability to distract herself. She watches Quinn a lot, and Quinn struggles to stay calm.

When she’s finally called, Rachel stands and moves to the waiting room so quickly that she trips over her own feet. Quinn catches her, smiling almost apologetically, and accompanies her to the examination room.

Quinn stays in the examination room until the doctor arrives, at which point Rachel tells her she doesn’t have to stay. Quinn raises an eyebrow, but ultimately decides to give Rachel her privacy. She gives Rachel a kiss and leaves the room.

A part of Quinn worries, a little, about why Rachel requested privacy. A little irrational part of Quinn’s brain wonders, is Rachel cheating on her? Does she have health concerns due to that? Quinn talks herself down from that. It’s not something she really, truly worries about with Rachel. Sure, she gets jealous sometimes when Rachel works with other really attractive people in her field, but it tends to be Rachel who worries more about Quinn cheating. Probably due to leftover teenage insecurities, it’s Quinn who has to assure Rachel every once in awhile that she is happy with just her, and that when she vowed to be faithful at their wedding, she meant it.

For Quinn, there really has never been anyone else who made her feel like Rachel, but sometimes, Rachel needs to hear that. Quinn can get that.

Rachel is in there for awhile. Quinn continues reading the office’s magazines, and has nearly finished the latest New Yorker when Rachel finally emerges, looking a little shell-shocked. But she smiles at Quinn, and Quinn stands to give her a congratulatory hug. She’s relieved, for Rachel, that the examination is over.

It’s on the way home that Rachel says something that makes Quinn’s relief evaporate.

“I have a follow-up appointment with a specialist.”

Quinn’s eyes widen. “What? Why?”

Rachel sighs, and looks away. “I…shared something with my doctor that I wanted to say alone, because it scares me, and because I didn’t want you to be there to tell me it was okay, that it was nothing, because I know it scares you, too. But…that choking, that trouble swallowing I’ve been having…” Rachel shakes her head. “It might be a sign of something. They don’t know what yet, but they want to do some tests to make sure it’s not something bad.”

“Okay,” Quinn says quietly. “Okay. That’s a good thing.” She looks at Rachel, a creeping feeling of dread spreading down her spine. “I’m glad you decided to share that with the doctor. I just want you healthy.”

“Me, too,” Rachel sighs, turning away from Quinn and staring out the window.

 

Rachel’s first visit to the neurologist ends up with inconclusive results, which is frustrating. The neurologist seems undeterred, because Rachel’s symptoms could be a lot of things, so she gets called back, and put through another few sets of tests.

Quinn goes with her each time, staying in the examination rooms with her whenever she can. The uncertainty of what’s wrong seems to be killing Rachel, but Quinn remains optimistic. She’s sure whatever it is, it will be found and dealt with. Rachel seems to cling to this optimism, and Quinn uses it to help kiss away her tears over the week.

Finally, they’re called back to the neurologist’s office. Rachel’s anxiety is impossible to contain, and Quinn finds she can’t even pretend to be calm. They should finally be getting a diagnosis today.

Once in the examination room, Dr. Scully comes in. She smiles weakly and says, “I have a diagnosis for you. Are you ready to hear it?”

Quinn’s stomach sinks. She is abruptly struck by the realization that this must be a serious diagnosis, because if it were _nothing_ , they could have been told over the phone.

It’s Rachel who answers, “Yes, please.”

The doctor nods. “Rachel, I’m sorry to have to tell you that you have ALS.”

Quinn’s world seems to spin away for a moment, because although she really doesn’t have a clear idea of what ALS is, she knows it’s bad. She knows it’s scary.

Rachel swallows, very deliberately. She doesn’t choke this time, and Quinn finds her eyes fixated on the movement of Rachel’s throat. “Okay,” Rachel says softly.

Dr. Scully studies her. “I don’t know how much you know about the disease,” she says carefully.

Rachel looks away to hide the tears that have formed in her eyes. “I know enough,” she says simply.

Dr. Scully watches her with compassionate eyes before looking at Quinn, who knows she must look terrified. “What does it mean?” Quinn blurts.

Dr. Scully takes a heavy breath. “It means that the motor neurons in Rachel’s body are slowly dying,” she says matter-of-factly. “Rachel’s condition is still quite early, but the symptoms she had been noticing, such as increased weakness in her hand and difficulty swallowing, have been progressing to other areas of the body. She’s noticed some weakness in one leg as well lately. It is difficult to predict how long someone may live with the disorder. There are steps we can take to make Rachel’s life as long and as happy as we can, but ultimately, this disease is fatal.”

 _Fatal_. The word feels like a punch to Quinn’s chest. She looks at Rachel, tries to picture what kind of death she is destined to experience, tries to imprint the image in her mind. Rachel, still mostly healthy. Rachel, _her_ Rachel, her wife, her love.

Rachel is given a referral to a physical therapist who will help her muscles stay useable for as long as possible, and she’s given an initial prescription to also help her with her early symptoms. Dr. Scully also recommends a support group for both of them.

On the way home, it’s Quinn this time who can barely look at Rachel. But it’s because she’s almost afraid Rachel will vanish before her very eyes.

 

There are a lot of tears shed the first week or so of Rachel’s diagnosis, but after a few weeks, life seems to just settle back to almost the way it was. Rachel now has regular appointments with the physical therapist, and medication she needs to remember to take, but her death no longer seems to loom the way it did for the first few weeks. Still, every time Rachel chokes, or stumbles over a word, Quinn’s heart lurches. It’s that little reminder of the fate that lies dormant in Rachel’s body, slowly consuming her neurons, like Persephone eating the pomegranate seed and sealing her fate.

But Rachel continues to write music. Quinn tries to write articles, but the prospect of Rachel’s illness looms. She knows she’ll have to write about it eventually, but can’t imagine how she’s ever going to find the humor in it.

But before she writes about it, there are others who should find out first.

Rachel’s dads and Quinn’s mom were told within the first week, but it’s several weeks before they decide they should share their misery with their friends.

This is one of those things that, like weddings and birth announcements, will be going out to all their old friends, their Glee club friends, as well as college and professional friends.

Some people, they tell through the natural course of conversation. Some people, they have to call, like Finn, who lives in Lima, and Puck, who lives in San Francisco. It’s also easier to call Mike who, even though he lives in the city, they don’t see a lot.

But Kurt, Brittany and Santana, they tell in person.

The three also live in New York, and they meet up semi-regularly for drinks (more often with Brittany and Santana, whose schedules are a little more flexible than Kurt’s).

It’s Sunday, which is typically one of the best days for them all to go out; Brittany, still trying to find a job in journalism that’s more profitable than the ad revenue she gets from her blog and her YouTube channel, also dances in some shows to make money, and Sunday she usually only has a matinee show. Santana usually has to work on Mondays, and she tends to gripe about how late they’re out, but she always has a good time. It takes some pushing to get Kurt to agree to come out, because he’s frequently so busy, but eventually he agrees.

Rachel and Quinn are first to arrive and grab a table. Quinn orders a pitcher of Brooklyn lager, knowing that Santana will share it with her, while Rachel, who has been advised by her doctor to avoid alcohol, orders a cranberry juice and tonic. She sighs a little as she takes a sip, and Quinn knows she already misses being able to enjoy a real drink.

When Santana and Brittany arrive, at first, all Quinn can see is the red tracksuit on the other side of the room. She suppresses an involuntary shudder. Santana strides in like she owns the place, while Brittany follows, looking eager. Santana slides into the seat across from Quinn, while Brittany greets her friends with hugs.

“Berry. Fabray,” Santana greets, not breaking eye contact with Quinn.

“I worry for your sanity that so much of your professional life involves channeling Coach Sylvester,” Quinn replies, keeping her gaze steady.

Santana relaxes, smirking. “It’s just so much _fun_ when I see you get all nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Quinn lies.

“Sure,” Santana snorts knowingly, then leans back in her chair and drapes her arm around Brittany’s chair. Rachel pours her a drink from the pitcher and passes it to her, and she finally really acknowledges Rachel. “How’s it going, Rachel?” she asks easily.

Rachel glances at Quinn, but ultimately shrugs and says, “Alright. How are you?”

Santana shrugs, “Not too bad,” but then proceeds to launch into a story about one of her recent patients who pissed her off. Santana is a licensed physical therapist who nonetheless derives far too much inspiration from her old Cheerios coach, down to wearing track suits instead of scrubs for her appointments. Most of her clients are house calls, but she is also affiliated with a nice hospital. Between them, she and Brittany make enough to live comfortably in a small apartment in Williamsburg.

They’re about halfway through the pitcher and Brittany has finished her first mojito when Kurt finally arrives, arm in arm with a handsome guy. Santana and Brittany both perk up with interest, but Quinn exchanges a worried look with Rachel. Their secret purpose for this get-together is to share Rachel’s diagnosis, but Kurt appears to have brought a new boyfriend, which just complicates everything.

Rachel scoots to make room, and Kurt bestows cheek kisses on everyone before squeezing in next to Rachel. “Everyone,” he announces, “This is Beck.” There’s a round of introductions, in which Kurt murmurs to Beck, “Did I mention I’m apparently a dyke tyke?” and Beck is invited to share the pitcher while Kurt flags down the server for a martini.

The conversation is easy for awhile. It isn’t too long before Brittany recognizes Beck from some of his minor roles on television and he recognizes Rachel from some of her Broadway roles. They discuss careers; Kurt has been working in the costuming department for several different shows, onstage and onscreen. Beck mostly does weird, avant-garde stage work, although he has had a few decent roles on television. They talk about how Kurt and Beck met.

It would be a great evening on any other night, catching up with friends, but Quinn feels her stomach sinking the more the evening seems to focus on getting to know Kurt’s new boyfriend.

Brittany is finishing her fourth mojito when Quinn starts to see the telltale signs that Santana wants to leave. She’s squinting at her phone a lot, and rubbing Brittany’s shoulders with her hand. Quinn swallows a large gulp of beer, then clears her throat during the next break in Beck and Brittany’s chatter. “Rachel and I have something we want to tell you,” she blurts.

Kurt’s eyes light up, “Does it have something to do with the fact that our resident diva has been sober this whole evening?” he asks, gesturing to Rachel’s cranberry and tonic.

Santana’s head lifts and she regards Rachel with great interest. Brittany looks puzzled, then asks, “Are we implying that Rachel is pregnant?”

Quinn can see Rachel’s eyes beginning to well up, and Santana begins to whoop, “Congratulations!”

“No!” Quinn says sharply, “It’s not that,” she explains, once Santana has subsided in confusion.

“Then _what_?” Kurt asks, the first sign of tension in his voice.

Quinn turns to look at Rachel, who is crying silently next to her. “Do you want to tell them?” she asks.

Rachel shakes her head and hugs herself.

Quinn puts an arm around her and draws her close. She looks at the faces of their closest friends one by one, and Beck, who just looks curious and worried at once. She takes a breath, “Rachel was just diagnosed with ALS.”

Santana’s hand flies to her mouth, and she stares at Rachel with undisguised pain and terror. But it appears that Santana is the only one at the table to really grasp the gravity of the situation. She meets Quinn’s eye, and sees that Quinn can no longer speak, so she looks at the others and says softly, “It’s a gradually degenerative, ultimately fatal, affliction of the nervous system.”

The other drunk occupants of the table struggle to piece together what she means, but they at least understand one word. “Fatal?” Kurt gasps. Santana nods gravely. Kurt grips Beck’s arm very hard, and Beck just looks like he’s suddenly been doused by cold water. Brittany stares at the tabletop, because she’s always had trouble witnessing other people’s pain.

Finally, Santana stands up and raises her glass. “If there’s anyone in the _world_ who can beat ALS, it’s you, Rachel Berry, because you’ve always won when you put your mind to it. And we’ll be with you every step of the way. To Rachel.”

“To Rachel!” the others reply in varying degrees of sadness and pity. They raise their glasses and toast to her.

Quinn resents Santana’s misplaced optimism, but at least Rachel is smiling through her tears now. It takes Quinn a moment to realize that Rachel is now crying because she’s moved by her friends, not sad.

That makes Quinn feel a little better.

 

They disperse from the bar soon afterwards, with Kurt heading back to Queens with Beck, Brittany and Santana heading back to Williamsburg, and Quinn and Rachel taking one of the last New Jersey Transit trains back to the suburbs. Moving out of the city had been a big compromise Rachel had made for Quinn, when they’d moved in together after finishing college. But Quinn needed quiet to write, and in a tiny apartment in the city, it just wasn’t possible for her find the quiet she needed, especially not with Rachel practicing her singing in the same space. Here, they were able to afford the mortgage on a small home, with two separate office rooms on opposite ends of the house, so they could both work without bothering each other.

Quinn thinks she must be drunker than she realized, because even through the train ride home, she still feels wobbly and cloudy-headed. Rachel keeps a firm grip on her arm and guides her home.

“This is like…the blind leading the blind, but it’s the stumbly leading the stumbly,” Quinn remarks uncertainly.

Rachel snorts, “I’ve actually been doing very well with my coordination with physical therapy, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ve always been very in tune with my body and learning to adjust my expectations has kept me better on my feet.”

“I’ve noticed,” Quinn says softly, and indeed, Rachel’s coordination has improved since diagnosis. She knows it’s temporary, and that physical therapy can’t help forever, but it’s good, it’s helping Rachel’s symptoms, for now. She suddenly laughs, “What if Santana was your physical therapist?”

“You know, I thought of that,” Rachel muses, “If I’d gone to a different doctor, affiliated with Santana’s hospital, she probably would be. I hear she’s a great PT, but I think it’s easier for me when it doesn’t feel like Sue Sylvester is back in my life.”

“I can understand that,” Quinn mumbles. Rachel guides her into the house, and once their door is shut, Quinn finds she doesn’t want Rachel to let go of her. She loops her arms around Rachel and holds her close. Rachel squeaks, but then allows herself to fall into Quinn’s embrace.

They stay like that for several long moments, and once inside, with Rachel so close to her, Quinn almost feels like she’s sobering up.

“I love you so much,” she murmurs into Rachel’s hair.

“I love you, too,” Rachel breathes back.

Quinn kisses her then, deeply, and it’s probably the most intense kiss they’ve shared since Rachel’s diagnosis. They’ve been together so long that some days they’re chagrined to realize they have never gotten around to kissing each other. They certainly aren’t experiencing lesbian bed death, but they have fallen into routines, they are both busy, and sometimes sex took the backseat to everything else in life. Quinn, still carrying a bit of puritanical hesitancy about sex, usually waits for Rachel to initiate, but as she kisses Rachel now, she realizes just how long it’s been since Rachel initiated.

Since before the doctor’s visit.

In the moment, Quinn knows she has to communicate to Rachel just how much she still loves her.

She takes Rachel’s hand and guides her through the house. Rachel follows, unvoiced questions in her gaze, and Quinn takes her into the bedroom. She thinks about Rachel’s physical therapist, how these days, Rachel prefers a gentle guide over the kind of teacher who pushes her with fear. Quinn can do that. Quinn can be gentle.

She lays Rachel gently on the bed. Quinn can feel her heart pounding in her skull as she leans over and slowly struggles to unbutton Rachel’s blouse. Rachel lets her, staring wide-eyed, and Quinn pushes her shirt open to reveal her bra and her soft stomach. She lowers her face down and kisses Rachel’s stomach, fluttery little kisses, ending with a soft nip that makes Rachel squeak. Quinn grins, sliding her hands softly up Rachel’s sides until they touch her bra, and then cup her breasts through it.

She draws Rachel up, sliding off her shirt and unclasping her bra. Rachel, in turn, is pushing Quinn’s jacket off her shoulders. Quinn lets her, then returns her hands to Rachel’s soft skin. This is for Rachel. Her hands slide down to grasp Rachel’s skirt. Quinn quickly unzips it and slides it down Rachel’s legs, taking her panties with it.

Quinn smirks down at Rachel. Rachel gazes up at her, vulnerability and uncertainty in her gaze, but it slowly transforms into a beaming smile as she sees the hungry and loving way Quinn looks at her. Rachel clears her throat and says softly, “This is hardly fair. You’re still dressed.”

In answer, Quinn pulls her shirt up over her head. “How’s this?”

“You could be nakeder,” Rachel crosses her legs, as if to communicate sexual unavailability.

“That’s not even a word,” Quinn chuckles as she unclasps her bra, “You can’t sleep with a writer and expect to seduce her with words like ‘nakeder’.”

“I think the word perfectly communicates my intentions and is therefore valid. Take off your pants.”

The command moves like heat down Quinn’s spine, and she is already complying. In moments, she’s naked in front of Rachel, but she barely gives her time to appreciate the view before she’s leaning over her on the bed and kissing her. It’s that same intense kiss they shared at the front door, and Rachel is arching her back to feel more of it.

Quinn moves her lips away from Rachel’s to kiss her jaw, her chin. She kisses her throat, trails her lips over collarbones, and then down along Rachel’s right arm, kissing her hand. She kisses every part of Rachel’s body that is failing her, from her ankles to her calves to her hips. Of course, she takes a long detour at Rachel’s gorgeous breasts. She kisses Rachel all over until she’s squirming and breathless and, Quinn is sure, achingly wet. She must be, because Quinn is, just from feeling Rachel’s skin under her.

She kisses her way back down Rachel’s body again, and then she circles her arm around Rachel’s thigh to place a steadying hand on her hips. She looks up the length of Rachel’s body to meet her dark, heated gaze, and watches the way her eyes flutter shut with Quinn’s first broad lick. She teases her tongue back and forth, then down to dip just inside. Rachel gasps, and Quinn gently latches her lips around her clit, circling it with her tongue.

She moves her tongue gently, sometimes closing her eyes to enjoy every sensation more, sometimes opening them to watch Rachel’s face, as she alternately gazes slack-jawed at Quinn as if she can’t believe what’s happening between her legs right now, or throws her head back in pleasure.

Quinn loves watching Rachel’s pleasure build. She loves the little gasps and moans she makes, the way her body moves with Quinn, hips undulating, torso twisting, trying to generate the most intense pleasure. Quinn smirks and adjusts her body slowly, carefully, trying not to alert Rachel of her intentions, and then her hand slides underneath her own chest until just her fingertips brush Rachel’s entrance. Rachel’s eyes go wide and Quinn slides two fingers inside, never ceasing the movement of her lips and tongue on Rachel’s clit.

“Oh, fuck, Quinn!” Rachel utters the first part of an almost inaudible stream of profanity, punctuated by little “yeah,”s and “ohhh,”s. Quinn’s fingers flex and twist, thrust and curl, inside Rachel’s body, seeking to drive Rachel beyond language, beyond thought.

She knows she’s succeeded when Rachel stops mumbling, when she’s reduced to merely little gasps that steadily rise in volume and pitch. She braces herself, her palm on Rachel’s hips pressing down with more force.

She feels Rachel break like an ocean before she hears it, feels it in the tightness around her fingers that make it almost impossible for them to move, that practically push them out of Rachel’s body. She feels it in the way the muscles in Rachel’s stomach and thighs tighten, the way her hips buck up and hold steady for several long seconds. And then Rachel is moaning and gasping and crying out, hips rolling against Quinn’s mouth, as Quinn struggles to hold steady, buffeted by the waves of Rachel’s orgasm.

She lifts her head after Rachel seems to finally subside, and crawls up to lie next to her. Rachel kisses her, making a delighted little hum at the taste on Quinn’s lips. “I love you,” Quinn murmurs to her.

“I know,” Rachel smiles, “And you’re still attracted to me?”

There’s a hint of a question in her tone. Quinn pulls her close, “Very, very much so.”

It seems to soothe Rachel, who basks in the comfort of Quinn’s cuddles for several minutes before she pushes Quinn onto her back to return the favor.

 


	2. Fight the scary day

For the next half a year or so, not much changes, except that their sex life has kicked itself into high gear. It’s like they’re in college again, and everything is new, and all they want to do is get naked together. Any opportunity that presents itself, it seems, they’re fucking. They’re bringing out the toys they haven’t used in awhile, breaking the routine they’ve fallen into of getting off with oral every time. They experiment with methods old and new to them both.

It’s almost as if they’ve forgotten the diagnosis. Their friends seem to; no one has brought it up since that night, though, to be fair, they haven’t started the conversation again, and it’s an understandably awkward topic. Santana has checked in with Rachel a few times to make sure she’s happy with her physical therapist, but otherwise, it goes unmentioned.

But for Quinn, at least, the diagnosis is always just there, looming at the very tip of her subconscious.

For Quinn, this surge in libido is, she’s pretty sure, directly related to Rachel’s illness.

She’s been doing her reading, her research, and she knows that before too long, Rachel’s mobility will start to become greatly reduced. A part of Quinn wants to fit in all the filthy, adventurous fucking with Rachel while she still can, while Rachel is still physically capable. Another part of Quinn is highly conscious of Rachel’s mortality, and wants to celebrate the fact that they’re currently alive and happy and relatively healthy together by making love.

There’s a palpable bittersweetness and desperation to their sex life now. But it doesn’t cut into their enjoyment of everything. Quinn thinks she’s ticking off a mental sexual bucket list, and she’s pretty sure Rachel is, too, trying to try everything once while she can.

So, life goes on. Rachel gets asked to reprise one of her old Broadway roles, and decides to go for it. It will be a short run of the show, only a few months long, with minimal traveling to only a few locations around the country. As a last show that Rachel might be able to perform in, it’s a good fit, as it’s one of her favorite roles of all time.

Quinn, on the other hand, writes. But not about Rachel, not about ALS. She’s not doing as well, she doesn’t think. Her memoir essays aren’t hitting all the marks they used to. But she is writing, and consistent effort will eventually uncover something good.

A part of her wonders if she should write about Rachel. She just really doesn’t know what to say. She still hasn’t found the humor in this tragedy.

So, she fucks her. She makes sure she goes to physical therapy and to the doctor. She makes sure she’s fed and that her clothes are clean and that she gets to and from her rehearsals and performances safely. And then she takes her home and fucks her again.

And for awhile, life is at a stasis.

 

Toward the end of the run of Rachel’s final show, Quinn finds her crying pitifully backstage after a show. She’s immediately alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Through her sobs, Rachel reveals that she was unable to sing as well tonight as she usually can. And not like she’s just having a bad night for her voice. She’s noticed she’s been running out of air quicker, having more trouble hitting notes. Tonight, she’s crying because she botched a high note.

Quinn’s heart feels like it’s shattering. It’s one thing to take away Rachel’s body, but it seems to disease is starting to take away her voice. She knew it would happen eventually, but she hadn’t considered how soon it would begin to degrade Rachel’s singing voice.

How can Rachel be Rachel if she can’t sing?

Quinn isn’t sure what to think when Rachel spends the next several mornings and afternoons in her home studio. She assumes she’s brooding, and wants to check on her, but also knows not to bother her when she’s in her workspace. It’s one of the agreements that makes their relationship work, the ability for them each to have a space in the home that is only theirs.

A week later, she realizes what it is, when curiosity puts her right next to Rachel’s door.

Rachel is singing. And it’s different. It’s lower, breathier.

That evening, after her show, Rachel reveals what Quinn has begun to suspect. Faced with losing her voice, she’s trying to finish an album while she can still sing at all. And she’s releasing one different from anything she’s ever done. Softer, less theatrical.

Music she can sing right now, as her voice is slowly taken from her.

She’s making an album that’s a requiem to her music, the thing that’s been her whole life.

Quinn is proud of her at the same time that she’s devastated.

 

Rachel wraps up her final Broadway show a few weeks later, after a quick tour of some of the US’s major cities. Quinn travels with her. The stress of travel doesn’t seem good for Rachel, who is no less passionate onstage, but whose singing and dancing definitely show the strain.

The final show is home, in New York. Quinn is sure they would both be home crying if their friends hadn’t insisted on taking them out. Rachel, of course, doesn’t drink, but it’s been awhile since they’ve all hung out, and it’s nice to catch up with Santana, Brittany, Kurt and Beck.

Even though ostensibly they’re celebrating the end of Rachel’s successful run of the show, the finality of it is palpable. No one comments on it, however, except for a moment when Santana jabs her elbow into Quinn’s side and leans over to murmur, “How is she doing?”

Tears well up in Quinn’s eyes when she thinks about the way Rachel’s voice is slowly vanishing. But she shrugs, “She’s doing her best.”

Santana just nods, sympathy in her eyes.

 

Rachel spends the rest of the year since her diagnosis working on her album. Her voice isn’t degenerating rapidly; she’s just lost some of her power and range for now. Physically, she’s not quite so lucky. By the end of the year, she’s taken to walking with a cane. Not because she can’t walk without one, but because the additional stability makes her less likely to fall.

Quinn is sure Rachel would be too proud to use a cane, even a pink bedazzled one, but stumbling and falling seems to wound Rachel’s pride much more. It takes only two instances of falling in front of Quinn before the cane becomes a part of Rachel.

Around the time the cane becomes a fixture in Rachel’s life, the sex begins to decrease.

It’s not a conscious decision. Quinn still finds Rachel beautiful and sexy, but both of them start initiating less.

There are other things to focus on, after all.

 

Despite Rachel’s focus on her album, she’s having a lot of trouble finishing it. She’s having a lot of problems being satisfied with her work, because it’s so different than what her voice is normally lauded for. She restructures and reworks at a lot of the songs, both at home, or with musicians. She sends a lot of samples to Mercedes, who has a successful music career of her own, looking for her opinion; despite not being as close as they were in high school, Rachel still seeks her opinion in music. Quinn often wonders if they do this to brag to each other about their careers, but in this case, Rachel seems to genuinely want Mercedes’s input.

It’s good, though, that Rachel has the album to focus on, Quinn thinks, because the day is rapidly coming when Rachel won’t be able to do music at all anymore.

As the months go by, Rachel’s fingers get clumsier on the keyboard as she practices and creates music. Her cane begins to become something to help her walk rather than catch her if she stumbles. Quinn, who has always been happy to cook meals and keep the household running, begins to feel the tasks getting more intense. She’s never apart from Rachel, in case she falls. She cooks meals that are nutritious, but easy to eat; Rachel’s legs seem to be degenerating the fastest, but she still occasionally chokes like she did just before her diagnosis.

Quinn writes less, now.

There are other things to focus on, after all.

 

As the second year since diagnosis goes on, Quinn slowly begins to become Rachel’s primary caretaker.

It isn’t an unconscious choice. In fact, it’s a choice explicitly presented to her.

One day, even with her cane, Rachel stumbles. Quinn moves to catch her, but isn’t fast enough. Rachel falls, catches herself with her hands, but then lowers herself onto her side.

Quinn curses, herself, not Rachel, and moves to try to gently coax Rachel back up.

It feels like a kick in the chest when she realizes Rachel is crying.

It’s not entirely unexpected. Rachel’s had a frustrating day. Her legs have been especially sore today, and she’s had a lousy day in the studio, struggling to make a song sound the way she wants.

“Is this really what you want?” Rachel asks, still curled on her side.

Quinn doesn’t understand the question, “What do you mean?”

“This. Me. Having to take care of me when I’m…” She doesn’t seem to be able to finish the thought.

Quinn shakes her head slowly, “Of course I would rather you weren’t sick.”

“I’m just trying to tell you. If this is too much…leave now. I’m not going to make you take care of me.”

Quinn grabs for Rachel’s hand. “Rachel. I’m here because I want to be. When I made those vows to you, in sickness and in health…I meant it. I’m not leaving.”

“Okay,” Rachel says weakly, “I just…wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t handle it. I don’t think I could, if it were you.”

In her heart, Quinn knows this isn’t true. She knows Rachel would take care of her just the same if it were Quinn who was sick.

But that little sentence stays with her for a long time.

 

Except for doctor’s appointments, Rachel and Quinn don’t leave the house much during year two. Toward the middle of the year, they start to make changes to their home to prepare for Rachel to use a motorized wheelchair when walking becomes too difficult.

Rachel finishes her album before a wheelchair becomes necessary. She is mostly pleased with it, and the preview Quinn hears is very haunting and moving; even Quinn won’t hear the full album until its release.

Their friends come and visit every week or so, just to have dinner and spend some quality time together. Rachel seems to appreciate the visits, but they stress Quinn out. It’s hard to make sure Rachel is okay when she has guests to care for, too.

One day, she gets a call from Santana. “We need to go out,” Santana says.

“Santana, you know I can’t,” Quinn sighs.

“No, you can. Listen, if Rachel’s up for it, bring her, too. But if she’s not, we’re still taking you out.”

“I’m not leaving Rachel alone,” Quinn snaps.

“Quinn, you haven’t even left the house to buy groceries in like a month. I know you have them delivered. You need to get out every once in awhile. Kurt and Beck will stay with Rachel. You’ll come with us.”

“Are you kidding me?” Quinn sighs. She hangs up on Santana.

But when Kurt and Beck arrive a few hours later, right as Quinn and Rachel are finishing up dinner, Rachel smiles and tells Quinn she should absolutely go out and meet up with Santana and Brittany.

“You still need to go have fun, Quinn.  I’m in good hands.”

Quinn stares hard at Kurt and Beck. Kurt smiles brightly, and Beck just looks back serenely. “Do you two have any idea how to keep Rachel safe?”

Kurt shrugs, “Rachel’s here. She can tell us. And Beck knows CPR.” Beck nods affirmation. “Besides, I’ve lived with Rachel. I’ve seen her in all sorts of compromising positions. Nothing can shock me.”

Rachel squawks indignantly, and Quinn narrows her eyes further, but eventually Rachel’s encouragement forces her to leave the house.

For a time, Quinn considers not meeting up with Santana and Brittany at all. She wars with her stubbornness the whole time she’s on the New Jersey Transit, tries to decide if she just wants to go to a bar by herself and pretend to be someone else for awhile, but in the end, she meets up with her friends.

Santana’s already ordered a pitcher of beer when she gets there. She hitches her chin at Quinn in greeting, while Brittany waves merrily. Santana wraps an arm around Quinn in a firm half-hug. “I was going to be pissed if I had to finish this pitcher myself.”

Quinn sits and folds her arms, “Who says I’m going to have any? There’s no way I’m going home drunk. Rachel needs me.”

“Kurt and Beck are completely willing to stay all night,” Santana says blandly, “We know you need a break.”

Quinn sighs heavily and rubs her forehead, but then pours herself a drink. She downs half her glass in one drink. She has to admit it feels really good to have a drink with her friends.

They’re working through their third pitcher, and Quinn is finally not worried about Rachel. She’s sure she would _know_ if anything was wrong. She, Santana and Brittany are having a blast talking about the gossip Quinn has missed from these past few years, arguing amiably about recent movies, critiquing Artie’s new webseries. Quinn’s actually having a great time.

Abruptly, Brittany looks awkward and waves back to a man across the bar. “Sorry. Be right back,” she tells the table, then goes to talk to him. He moves to kiss her and gets her cheek. Quinn watches with growing horror, while Santana just observes with her eyebrow lifted.

Quinn leans forward to Santana and hisses, “What was that?!”

Santana shrugs, “Oh, he’s just some guy she slept with.”

“Like…years ago?”

Santana regards Quinn with light humor. “No. Like, last month, maybe?”

“Oh my God, Santana. I’m so sorry,” Quinn reaches out to touch Santana hand. “I was so wrapped up in my own stuff I had no idea that…”

“That what?” Santana asks, unable to keep a little grin off her face.

“That you guys have had to work through an…infidelity. I’m sorry. You can always talk to me, you know.”

Santana outright laughs, while out of the corner of her eye, Quinn sees Brittany stroke the man’s bicep. “Quinn, there _was_ no infidelity.”

Quinn stares at Santana, her brain feeling sluggish. “What?” she asks, knowing she sounds stupid.

Santana looks highly amused and her spine straightens proudly, “You have no idea, do you?”

“Just tell me,” Quinn snaps. She hates feeling slow.

“We have an open marriage.”

Quinn recoils in horror and disgust, “What?!”

“Oh, honestly, Quinn. How are you still such a prude? I was always sure Rachel was into some intense, dark shit.”

Quinn blushes hard, her body suddenly making her aware of how long it’s been since she and Rachel had any sex, intense or sweet. “It’s not prudish to want to respect my marriage vows.”

“Well, marriage vows are different. Brittany and I never vowed to be the only people we fuck for the rest of our married lives. That doesn’t work for us. Opening up our relationship is the only way it works. Brits gets to express the part of herself that likes dudes, and I get some fresh pussy every once in awhile. It’s great.”

“Do you have to be so vulgar?” Quinn asks, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you saw the kind of things I get to see. Here. Look.” Santana scrolls through her phone for a bit and then shows Quinn a picture of a girl. It’s a blonde girl’s face; she’s clearly topless, though the picture cuts off before Quinn can really see her breasts. She’s smirking up at the camera, and she’s definitely gorgeous.

Quinn looks away, “I don’t need to see that.”

“Jealous?” Santana smirks, clearly swiping through more photos. Quinn can only imagine what the next ones are like.

“She’s not my type, so, no, I’m not. I’m happy with Rachel.”

Santana nods, “Well, that’s what works for you. Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.” Brittany comes back then, and sits next to Santana, kissing her. Santana kisses back. “Quinn doesn’t understand our arrangement,” Santana reports.

Brittany frowns, “I told you not to tell her. I told you it would just make her uncomfortable.” It’s then that Quinn realizes the only reason Brittany was awkward about running into this guy at the bar was her presence, not for fear of hurting Santana.

“Well, it was that or let her think we’d suffered a shattering infidelity. You’ve gotta tell your boy toys to be more subtle if we want to keep this private.”

“I know,” Brittany sighs, “But he’s a little slow.”

“You always did like meatheads,” Santana’s mouth twists, half-smirk, half-irritation.

“Yeah. Including you,” Brittany soothes, kissing her head. It makes Santana smile.

Quinn catches the last train back to New Jersey and finds her way home, still half-drunk. She feels awful and guilty about coming back so late and still being drunk. When she stumbles her way back into her house, she’s met with Beck, who stops her gently.

“Shhh,” he says, “Kurt is sleeping next to Rachel. He’s willing to get up to help her with anything she needs through the night. You just rest.”

Quinn blinks, both somewhat relieved to find the responsibility off her shoulders for the night and a little distressed at the thought of Kurt sleeping in her bed. Beck guides her to the tiny guest room.

“You should sleep in here,” Quinn mutters.

Beck shakes his head, “I’ll take the couch. You rest up here. You need it.” He’s already placed an ibuprofen and a cup of water by the bedside table. Quinn, unwilling to risk disturbing Rachel by going into the master bathroom, goes into the other bathroom to brush her teeth with her finger and then collapses into bed.

 

After that night, there are people around a lot more often, and they start to feel much less like guests.

Santana, Brittany, Kurt and Beck become almost constant presences in their lives. They come hang out to keep Rachel company and to have fun with her, but also to help Quinn by grabbing groceries, making simple meals, and anything else they can do to help. Santana has taken Rachel to doctor’s appointments, Kurt has styled her hair on the rare days that Rachel wants to leave the house, Brittany has taken her shopping for new dresses. Even Beck, despite being relatively new to the group, is as present and helpful as he can be. And Mike makes appearances now, despite mostly losing touch with everyone through the years.

It’s at around this time that friends and family from far away start to become more present.

Quinn supposes that news of Rachel’s deteriorating condition began to travel. Because she still could sound normal on the phone and look normal on a chat screen, most people were probably unaware of how she was doing. But now, the reality seems to be hitting everyone that Rachel is getting worse. Her dads come up every few weekends to visit now, and Judy even makes an appearance every few months. Old Glee friends come from far away; Puck flies out for a long weekend, meeting up with Finn, and they spend the weekend doing all the yardwork Quinn hasn’t had time for. Artie comes up to help Rachel choose a wheelchair, and they spend a long time talking about what it’s like; losing her ability to walk scares Rachel almost as much as losing her ability to sing. Tina comes up and takes Rachel out to a show. Sam comes up to help Quinn shop for a new car that can support Rachel’s wheelchair. Even Blaine shows up for a weekend to help Quinn spring clean the house, despite the lingering awkwardness between him and Kurt, even all these years later.

It’s nice, that Quinn no longer feels like she’s taking care of Rachel alone.

 

By the end of year two, Rachel is using her wheelchair, mostly for her own protection. She can still walk a little bit, but it’s difficult and painful.

Partly because Rachel’s body isn’t a source of much pleasure at all anymore, and partly because they are constantly surrounded by friends, intimacy between Quinn and Rachel is at an all-time low. They might kiss sometimes, but even massaging Rachel’s sore muscles has been taken over mostly by Santana, Brittany or Mike. The only touches between them are really those of caretaking, not attraction.

It’s bittersweet to realize that, though her marriage isn’t falling apart, or ending, it no longer feels like a marriage. The relationship has changed, and much as she still loves Rachel, and knows Rachel loves her, their priorities have shifted.

Quinn vowed to stay in sickness and in health, but she never imagined that in sickness would end up feeling like routine, and that she would end up Rachel’s nurse.

Still, it’s a marriage still built on love, and trust, and care, and Quinn had not expected the physical intimacy to last. But, with everything else to focus on, she also didn’t expect to miss it so much.


	3. We both pull the tricks out of our sleeves

Year three is mostly about keeping Rachel happy.

Rachel mostly remains optimistic, not necessarily about her chances of survival, but about being able to maintain a good quality of life. However, like anybody, she does get down sometimes. The wheelchair depresses her a bit. Her arms are beginning to get weaker and shakier. Her voice is beginning to sound that way, too.

A few months into the year, Rachel’s final album is released, and with it, there’s plenty of press about Rachel’s diagnosis. The local friends rally to prepare Rachel for different interviews. It’s the first time Rachel has publicly discussed her diagnosis, though rumors had been stirring for quite some time. Rachel maintains that aura of confidence and optimism through the interviews, though privately, at home with Quinn, she does despair a bit. It’s hard for either of them to listen to Rachel’s final album, to listen to the way her voice has changed.

Rachel’s requiem to her musical career sells well, though. They both take some comfort in that.

The support from friends and family remains steady and helpful. Quinn appreciates that she has nights off from caring for Rachel, nights she’s allowed to unwind. Frequently, she spends those evenings with Santana and Brittany, which makes sense, as they’re some of her closest local friends. And, despite Santana’s career choice, she feels strangely more secure leaving Rachel with Kurt.

Quinn thought she’d feel more frustrated having a guest room almost constantly occupied. But her guests all make themselves at home to the point that she doesn’t have to wash the sheets or remake the bed; they do it. Her guests often cook for themselves, or bring home food, and generally don’t get in her way at all. They’re there to help, after all.

She has a support system for Rachel, and in most ways, it’s amazing.

There’s a part of her that thinks about the fact that she and Rachel rarely get time alone. Though, time with Rachel mostly involves her health at this point. As the year progresses, Rachel’s speaking voice starts to get weaker. Her hands get shakier. Still, Quinn misses Rachel, in a weird way. It’s not about missing the physical stuff so much, though she does miss that, a lot, desperately. But she misses _talking_ to Rachel. She misses her company.

These days, she feels like she gets more quality time with Santana than with Rachel. But, in a way, it’s better that way. She can unwind with Santana in ways she can’t unwind with Rachel. She can’t discuss her fears and frustrations about Rachel’s condition _with_ Rachel, after all.

Santana is a good listener. It’s not a trait Quinn would have ever attributed to her until this whole situation happened. But she is. Sure, she mostly listens well when they’ve both been drinking, so Quinn supposes her mind might be wandering and Quinn would never be in the condition to notice. But she seems to listen as Quinn tries not to cry about Rachel’s deteriorating condition, as Quinn laments the fact that her marriage feels like it’s entirely about healthcare.

And, halfway through the third year, as Quinn laments about the fact that she hasn’t gotten laid in about two full years and, in spite of everything, it’s all she can think about. And maybe it also has to do with the fact that Brittany isn’t with them tonight, so there’s less to distract Santana, but she’s especially sure Santana is listening.

“You try talking to Rachel about it?” Santana asks bluntly.

Quinn twists her mouth. “You know we barely talk anymore. And no. I’m not humiliating her by asking her for something I know she’s in no condition to give me.”

Santana snorts, “She’s sick, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a sex drive. You should hear the stuff I hear at work. Most of my patients can’t wait to get their bodies working just so they can jump into bed. Some of them want a practice round with me first,” she laughs.

Quinn ignores the bragging. “It does mean that. I would know. Believe me, I know Rachel, and if she needed sex, she would tell me.”

“Would you do it? Maybe she thinks you’re not attracted to her anymore.”

Quinn thinks about it. She knows she tried to make it clear to Rachel that she was still attracted her, back when her diagnosis was still new. But when the cane came out…that’s when the sex died.

It wasn’t _because_ of the cane. It wasn’t _because_ Rachel’s body was failing. It was just that they lost that window of freedom where Rachel was sick but didn’t need care. Once Rachel needed care…things changed.

But it isn’t because Quinn was _unattracted_ to her…she is.

She just figured Rachel wasn’t interested.

“You know, you’re right. I should talk to her.”

“Well, obviously. She’s your wife. You guys should be talking about more than just her death, anyway.”

Quinn winces. She can’t help it. Even thinking about it is still terrifying.

But Santana is actually being helpful, so she forgives her.

 

Quinn makes sure to schedule an evening that’s just her and Rachel. They eat, and over dinner, they talk. It’s difficult for Rachel to eat and talk at the same time. She has to concentrate on what she’s doing, so the meal lasts for a long time.

It gives Quinn some time to feel like she’s _actually_ catching up with her wife. It gives Quinn the chance to actually _see_ Rachel as her wife again, and not her patient.

Rachel has been maintaining good spirits. She loves having the people she loves around her. She can’t really sing anymore, but when Kurt is over, they make music together; she helps him play and record the melodies in her mind, he helps her write down the lyrics she thinks up.

Quinn had no idea that Rachel is still making music. It makes her happy to hear about.

They head to bed not long after their long dinner. Quinn helps Rachel lie down and lies next to her, stroking her stomach lightly.

“I’ve missed you,” she tells Rachel honestly.

Rachel smiles wanly. “Me, too,” she answers quietly, but through the weakness in her voice, Quinn can hear her wistfulness.

“And I love you, very much. If there’s anything you want me to do, anything at all…” She trails off. She hopes Rachel knows what she’s asking.

Rachel looks at her for a long moment, searching her face. She smiles again, but it’s almost sad. “I just want you to hold me for a little while,” she says.

Quinn curls close, and holds her. Rachel’s physical presence is comforting, and she relishes the feeling of holding her wife close, of feeling the way Rachel’s hands tighten on her arms, in affectionate squeezes.

But as Rachel drifts off to sleep, Quinn finds herself blinking back tears at the very delicate sexual rejection.

 

Although it’s no cure for her sexual frustration, the night at least shows them that they need to take time for each other sometimes. It’s great to have people around, to have help, but they still need to be a team. They still need to be a married couple.

So they make sure to have an evening of conversation, just them, at least once every two weeks. And though they sleep next to each other more nights than not, they take time to cuddle. Quinn makes sure not to outsource all of Rachel’s massages, and she makes sure to kiss Rachel every day.

But it’s still not enough.

Sometimes, Quinn locks herself in her office when there are other people home with Rachel. Not to work, though of course, that’s what she claims. But to masturbate to porn.

It’s something Quinn hasn’t done in years, because she hasn’t needed to. And she can’t help the waves of shame that wash over her after every orgasm to anonymous actresses.

It’s not just the porn, though that has never sat right with her. It’s the sneaking off to watch it. It’s the fact that her libido is currently in control of her, and Quinn hates not having control.

But she can’t deny that even going to the grocery store causes her to fantasize intensely about pushing the cashier against the cash register and having her way with her.

“I feel like a teenage boy,” she gripes to Santana and Brittany one evening.

“Well, at our age, this is our sexual peak. That’s got to play a role. Still, that sucks,” Santana frowns, “What are you going to do about it?”

“Tough it out? I have no choice. I can’t cheat on Rachel. It would break her, and her body is already breaking enough as it is.” Her voice cracks. Brittany reaches a hand out to grab hers, and for a moment, Quinn stops thinking about her perpetual horniness as the conversation steers back to Rachel’s condition. She’s wheelchair bound, her voice weak, but she hasn’t been obviously degenerating further lately. Which is good. Maybe the new treatment the doctor is trying is helping, staving off her demise for awhile longer.

 

Quinn tells herself to take a week and devote herself entirely to Rachel. She refuses to masturbate. She refuses to fantasize about cashiers, or people on the trains, or people on TV. She tamps down on her sexual energy and for a week just focuses on Rachel.

It works. Sort of.

To celebrate the week, she goes out with Santana and Brittany on a night that Kurt and Beck are over.

When she gets there, though, only Santana is there. Quinn gives her a quizzical look as she sits down across from her at the tiny table at the bar. Santana shrugs, “Remember that guy Britt has been trying to land an interview with for her blog?” Quinn vaguely remembers something about this, and feels bad for not listening to Brittany more the night she was complaining about how hard he was to correspond with. “She finally got a night she could talk to him. So she’s home, working on the interview.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Quinn says, “Guess it’s just you and me, then.”

Santana smirks, “You and me,” she offers a toast. Quinn’s eyes linger on that smirk for a moment.

By their fourth pitcher, Quinn is pretty fixated on Santana’s mouth. She’s not even sure what it’s saying to her at this point, she’s just mesmerized by plump lips, soft, curvy, delicious…

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?” Santana scowls.

“Huh?” Quinn blinks, “Yes, I was,” she lies unconvincingly.

“Please. You were not.” Santana crosses her arms, “I’m just glad I didn’t wear something low cut or I’m pretty sure you’d be mounting me in the middle of the bar.”

Quinn snorts, “Oh, get over yourself.”

Santana starts talking again, but Quinn loses track almost immediately, because now her eyes are wandering again, trying to imagine Santana’s breasts underneath her button up shirt and suit coat.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Quinn,” Santana sounds annoyed.

“Alright, _stop_ hitting on me,” Quinn stands up and begins to stride out of the bar. She can’t explain her anger except that she feels like her whole head is on fire.

“Quinn!” Santana growls, and out of the corner of her eyes, she can see Santana make a frustrated noise, throw some cash on the table, and storm out after her.

“Quinn! Get back here!” Santana grabs her on the sidewalk and spins her around.

“Don’t touch me! If I can’t trust you to keep it in your pants—”

“Excuse me? _You’re_ the one who can’t even talk because you’re too busy staring at my tits.”

It’s then that Quinn recognizes the source of her anger. Embarrassment. “Then stop…stop…stop _tempting_ me!”

Santana opens her mouth to defend herself, then closes it, looking at Quinn with a mixture of hurt and pity.

Quinn hates that look, and surges forward to kiss her. Just to stop that look, she tells herself.

It only takes a moment for Santana to respond, fingers scratching at the back of Quinn’s neck as she grips it, holding it steady as she takes control of the kiss. Quinn kisses messily back, her hands clawing at the back of Santana’s suit jacket.

“Fuck, what are we doing?” Santana asks, pulling away.

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I need this,” Quinn’s chest is heaving. She can barely think.

Santana searches her face. “Okay. We can…okay. I know a place.” Without taking her eyes off of Quinn’s face, she reaches out a hand to hail an approaching taxi.

They slide into the back, and Santana gives an address Quinn doesn’t recognize, but she doesn’t care. She can’t keep her hands off of Santana, though Santana does her best to keep their antics secret. She closes her knees on Quinn’s wandering hand, but hers discreetly scratches nails lightly up Quinn’s thigh while she taps away on her phone with her other hand. Quinn feels like she’s going to melt.

Their destination turns out to be a hotel. Not a super fancy one, but not a seedy motel with hourly pay rates, either. At this point, Quinn isn’t even sure where in the city they are, and she doesn’t care. She’ll take any private space they can find.

Santana checks them in, and Quinn manages to keep her hands to herself. The woman at the front desk casts a sad glance at her, and gives Santana a knowing look when she hands her the key. They don’t even have any bags, Quinn realizes. Not exactly discreet.

“Been here before?” she asks pointedly in the elevator. It’s not enough to kill her libido, but it does bother her.

Santana rolls her eyes. “Obviously. I don’t go bringing women home to Brittany. Well, unless she asks me to.” She winks as she exits the elevator. “We don’t _parade_ our sex partners in front of each other. Unless the other asks for details.”

Quinn goes white, “Please tell me you won’t tell Brittany about this,” she hisses as Santana strides down the hall to their room.

Santana doesn’t answer for a moment as she struggles with the door key, but once they’re inside, she grabs Quinn and pushes her against the door. “Are you kidding?” she growls, low. “Do you really think I could keep this a secret from Britts? Fuck, Quinn. We’ve _always_ wondered what you and Rachel got up to in bed. Now that I’m getting some firsthand experience…” her hand slides up Quinn’s thigh again, causing Quinn’s breath to come out in a whimpering shudder. “I am _definitely_ telling my wife. Fuck, especially if you keep making noises like that.”

Quinn grabs the lapels of Santana’s jacket and begins to push her backwards, toward the bed. “Fuck you,” she growls, half incoherent with frustration. She pushes her back and clambers on top of her, kissing desperately.

Santana flips her onto her back, “Please. I know you’re dying to get fucked. Don’t pretend you’re in control here.” Quinn whines in frustration as she lets Santana unzip her dress and slide it down her body. Santana wastes almost no time divesting Quinn of all her clothes, doesn’t even really give Quinn time to feel awkward about being naked in front of a new person. But it’s _Santana_. They saw each other practically naked after Cheerios practice in high school.

But she’s looking at Quinn now, hungrily, like she’s never seen something so delicious before. Quinn parts her legs when Santana’s hands start massaging her thighs.

She thinks she should be more embarrassed by how wet she is, but the truth is, she can barely think when Santana’s fingers first brush her folds.

“ _Fuck_ , Quinn,” Santana chokes out.

“Yeah. Fuck me,” Quinn stutters out. It’s not particularly clever or funny, but Santana laughs lowly, and then two fingers are sliding inside Quinn. She gasps, but she’s also never wanted something inside of her so badly in her life.

Santana fingers start moving, pumping. “God,” she mutters, her eyes glazed as she takes in Quinn, whose mouth is open and whose back is already arched in pleasure.

“My clit,” Quinn chokes out. “Please,” she adds, her eyes meeting Santana’s for a moment.

Santana’s gaze falls down between Quinn’s legs and she licks her lips, seemingly unconsciously. But then she presses her lips together and adjusts her body to use her other hand.

Privately, Quinn wishes she would use her mouth, but she gets it. Maybe she and Brittany have rules, she thinks vaguely.

Santana has barely been touching her clit for half a minute before Quinn feels her orgasm building. “Oh my God, Santana,” she cries out, “Fuck,” she says once more, not even sure what she means by it, before she’s tightening around Santana’s fingers and coming, with a cry so low and raw she feels the pain in her throat. And despite the situation, it’s flashes of Rachel that play behind her eyes. The way Rachel’s body moves. Her face in the throes of an orgasm. The sounds she makes.

She opens her eyes to find Santana lying next to her on the bed, fully clothed and looking supremely smug. “Damn,” Santana says. She eyes her wet fingers and starts to bring them to her lips.

Quinn can’t explain the impulse, but she grabs Santana’s hand and slides the fingers into her own mouth. She makes eye contact for a moment as she cleans the fingers, and Santana’s eyes are dark, her mouth slack. Quinn looks away, feeling hot and foolish all at once.

“Guess I won’t get to find out what you taste like,” Santana grumbles dazedly as she finally pulls her fingers from Quinn’s mouth.

Quinn pushes her onto her back, “And you thought you were the one in control. Now, I’m going to fuck you with my mouth.”

Santana moans at the words, and wastes no time helping Quinn strip her.

Quinn can’t help but take in the naked woman in front of her. She hasn’t thought _extensively_ about what Santana might look like naked, but she would be lying if she said it had never crossed her mind. Now, she knows. And, _fuck_ , she does not care whether they are real or not when she cups soft breasts in her hands for the first time in years.

It feels like coming home, but to a new house. A different house, with some renovations. Santana’s skin is soft, but it doesn’t feel like Rachel’s. It doesn’t _smell_ like Rachel.

But it doesn’t matter, because it feels amazing, and she smells amazing, and when Quinn buries her face between Santana’s legs, tears of longing come to her eyes. It has been _too long_ , too long since she felt so intimate and wanted and desired.

And when Santana comes against her mouth only minutes later, it’s the first time in a long time that Quinn feels fulfilled.

“God _damn_ ,” Santana whispers in the dark next to her moments later.

“Yeah?” Quinn asks.

“I’d be lying if I said I never thought about this,” Santana says softly, “And _damn_. You’re a better lay than I thought you would be for being so repressed for so long.”

“Shut up,” Quinn smacks her lightly in the breast, making Santana scowl and cradle it protectively. “And what do you mean, you’ve thought about it?”

Santana shrugs, “What can I say? I’ve always thought you were hot.”

“Please don’t tell me you have feelings for me.”

Santana outright laughs, “Dream on. But maybe you cropped up in some fantasies over the years. Own it. Be flattered.”

It _is_ flattering. And now Quinn is exhausted.

She falls asleep next to Santana, the smell of sex in the air.

 

In the morning, Quinn is instantly horrified.

“Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God,” she whispers in horror, staring at the naked Santana, who blinks open her eyes blearily.

“You said that last night, too,” Santana grumbles, glaring at her. Then she sighs and rolls her eyes, “Please tell me you are not having a meltdown.”

“Santana! Are you kidding me? We had _sex_.”

“I’m aware. I was there.” She sits up, rumpling her bedhead, watching Quinn with wary eyes.

“I have _responsibilities_! I have a sick wife at home.”

“I’m _well aware_!” Santana shouts over her. “That’s why you _needed_ this!” Quinn starts shaking her head emphatically, “Quinn, _listen to me_ for a second. First of all, everything at home is fine. I texted Beck in the taxi last night to let him know you’d had too much to drink and I was taking you home rather than making you navigate the Jersey Transit. Then I texted Brittany to let her know I was taking you to a hotel.”

“You…what?”

“I covered for you at home. And I cleared our activity with my wife. She and I discussed this, by the way, that we could offer you a safe, discreet sexual outlet. I just never thought you’d go for it.”

“I never _would_ have gone for it if you hadn’t gotten me so drunk!”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Oh, what _ever_. Don’t even try to pin this on me. I didn’t make you drink.”

Quinn sighs. Santana is right. She _had_ wanted to get a little drunk, she _had_ wanted to have sex. “Fuck,” she puts her head in her hands. “I cheated on Rachel.”

Santana watches her closely, “But I didn’t cheat on _my_ wife,” she says pointedly. “Loyalty means different things to different people. What Rachel needs you to be right now is her emotional support, her caretaker. She doesn’t need you to be her lover.” Santana spreads her hands, “You can’t cheat her out of something she doesn’t want or need.”

Quinn knows it’s true. But it doesn’t make her feel any better. “This was wrong.”

Santana shrugs, “Yeah. But I’d bet money that it will help you get through the week without jacking off every three hours.”

 

Quinn feels like she’s doing a walk of shame home after she showers in the hotel, puts back on her dirty clothes from the night before, and heads home. When she gets there, she ducks her head in embarrassment when she comes in the door.

Rachel is sitting at the kitchen table next to Kurt, while Beck cooks oatmeal. Rachel sees her and giggles a bit. “Have a good night?” she asks.

Quinn forces a smile. “Yeah. Sorry I didn’t make it home.”

“It’s okay. I get it. You _should_ have the chance to have a wild night sometimes. Besides, I was fine with these guys.”

Kurt gives her an appraising eye. “You had to go through a party phase _some_ time, since you were such a bore in college.”

Quinn smiles weakly. She isn’t sure what to say.

“You look like you need this,” Beck offers her a cup of coffee. He’s right, she does need coffee. But she might also need sleep. She’s not sure. She doesn’t really have a hangover, but she doesn’t feel great, either.

“Thanks,” she nods to him. She takes in all the attention on her for a moment, then says, “I don’t feel great. I’m going to go lie down for a bit.”

“Beck and I have to leave in an hour,” Kurt tells her.

“I’ll be done by then,” she promises.

She changes clothes and sits in the bed she shares with Rachel and stares at the ceiling. She’s not crying, really. But she feels…odd. Exposed. She sits and sips her coffee and collects herself.

There’s a knock on the door about fifteen minutes later. It’s Beck, carrying a glass of water and some ibuprofen. “Thought you might need this.”

Quinn shakes her head. “No. Thanks, though. I’m not really hungover.”

He regards her for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I…yeah. I guess. Just feel guilty. You know, for not coming home.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. You were mostly gone for the time Rachel was asleep, and Kurt and I know how to help her.” Quinn tilts her head to acknowledge the point. “Listen, we know this is stressful for you. That’s why we wanted you to have those nights out. You do what you need to do to stay sane, okay?”

Quinn watches him as he leaves the room, wondering just how much he’s surmised.


	4. Give me your eyes, I need sunshine

Loathe as she is to admit it, Santana is right.

The next week is a good week for Quinn, in part because she isn’t so horny she can barely think. When she goes up to her office, she actually _is_ working. And she’s clear-headed enough that she thinks she actually has a decent essay in the works. And she’s more present with Rachel. They talk more, even when it’s not a night set aside for just them to catch up. They feel closer.

Of course, Quinn thinks, another contributing factor is definitely her guilt. She’s trying to prove to herself—and to Rachel, sort of—that she’s still there for her.

Rachel seems to suspect nothing. She’s just happy to have Quinn around.

But as weeks pass, Quinn finds that this inner peace doesn’t last.

Her libido comes roaring back before too long.

It really starts to come back within the week, at night when she closes her eyes, or when she’s in the shower, and her mind replays the evening with Santana. She always feels a surge of arousal that she quickly covers with her own shame. But after a week or so, as her body becomes desperate for release—a release not satisfied by masturbation—her guilt starts to subside a little, and she starts to think about the possibility of fucking Santana again.

The idea takes hold, and before the second week is up, she asks Santana to meet her for dinner.

Mike is home with Rachel. He’s been coming by more often, and it’s been nice for them both to reconnect with him. He’s still his quiet, stoic self, but he and Rachel like to read books together and voice act the dialogue. It turns out he’s quite goofy when he isn’t being quiet. He also gives Rachel some of the best massages for her sore muscles.

Quinn meets Santana at a restaurant. She arrives, in her tracksuit, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, clearly just off of work. She looks a bit worried as she takes a seat across from Quinn. “Everything okay?’ she asks immediately.

Quinn nods, casts a cursory glance around, and then leans forward. “I’m thinking about what happened…last time.”

They haven’t hung out one on one, or even with Brittany, since they had sex. Santana and Brittany have come over to spend time with and help with Rachel, but they haven’t gone out for drinks. Quinn supposes it’s a good thing, as she did need time to process this. So she and Santana really haven’t talked about this at all.

“What about it?” Santana asks guardedly.

“I was thinking that…well. Maybe we could make an arrangement.”

Santana’s face relaxes, the hint of a smirk appearing. “Why, Ms. Fabray, are you trying to seduce me?”

“Shut up,” Quinn answers sharply, glancing around again. She sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I just…I mean, I just wonder if we can make this work. Just you and me. No one has to know, and we just do it so I can do this.”

“Of course,” Santana is serious again. “We both want what’s best for Rachel, and as far as I can tell, keeping you from wandering off to hookers so you can get your rocks off isn’t going to help Rachel.”

Quinn nods reluctantly, “Yeah. The last thing I want is to start resenting Rachel for not being able to do this for me anymore.” She swallows, thinking about how those little feelings were building even with Rachel’s gentlest sexual rejection, her obvious reasons for lack of libido. “But I mean…just us, okay? Not that I don’t love Brittany, but I can’t even entertain the thought of having a threesome without Rachel. And, no offense, but she’s not really my type.”

“Bullshit. She’s everyone’s type. But don’t worry. Britts doesn’t tend to have sex with women on her own. She’s mostly into the open thing with me so she can have men sometimes. Besides, I don’t think you’re her type either.”

“Absurd,” Quinn mutters, half in jest. “Okay, so…we do this. And you get tested.”

“I get tested every three months. You’re going to have to wait a month,” Santana fixes her with a hard stare.

“Fine,” Quinn snaps, “I guess I won’t eat your pussy again until then.”

Santana’s eyes widen, and Quinn relishes the moment in which she’s put Santana off balance. But she recovers. “That’s cool,” she says blithely, then mutters, “We’ll see if you can resist.”

Quinn elects to ignore the comment. “Do you…have any rules? You know, with Brittany?”

“Sort of. I mean, with the whole discretion thing, which you want anyway, and not telling each other stuff unless we ask. She’s supposed to use condoms, and I don’t do oral with random hookups, at least not unprotected…um, though we talked, and you’re an exception, because I know you, and trust you reasonably, and know we could handle the fallout if one of us got infected. Though it’d be nice if you extended the same courtesy and got tested yourself.”

Quinn sighs heavily. She hasn’t gotten tested since she married Rachel; because Rachel was always heartbroken by the idea of infidelity, Quinn was sure she would never cheat. And Quinn had never cheated. Until now. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Good. Okay. We’ll figure out another time to hook up soon.”

“Tonight’s not good?”

“Wow, how hard up are you? No, tonight’s not good. We’ll work something out.”

“Fine,” Quinn snaps. They finish the meal, and by the time they part, they feel more like friends than illicit lovers. It gives Quinn a sense of peace as she heads home to relieve Mike of his responsibilities taking care of Rachel.

 

That weekend, Quinn gets an invitation from Santana to come over to her apartment. She figures that she’ll hang out there with her and Brittany. Rachel’s dads are in town to help look after Rachel that weekend, and Rachel encourages her to go and have fun; it’s been a few weeks since she hung out with their friends, after all.

But when Quinn gets there, it’s just Santana. She opens the door wearing casual, around the house clothes: jeans and a faded old McKinley t-shirt. “Hey,” she greets.

“Hey,” Quinn steps in and looks around. The apartment is pretty small, so it’s pretty quickly evident that they’re alone. Still, “Where’s Brittany?” she asks.

“Out with one of her boytoys,” Santana answers, without a trace of bitterness. The casual sentence still shocks Quinn. She had been defensive about Brittany being bisexual for such a long time, it both surprises and pleases Quinn to see her so nonchalant about it.

“Oh…okay?” Quinn says, raising an eyebrow. “So, it’s just us? Tonight?”

“Yep,” Santana smiles, and it’s more genuine than a smirk.

“Alone. In your apartment. And you both think this is a good idea?”

“Sure. It’s more discreet. You’re recognizable enough with your New Yorker essays and shit that you and I checking into hotels across the city might not be the best option. So Brittany okayed us using the apartment sometimes, like when she’s overnight with a guy.” Santana fixes her with a hard look. “She’s been good about making you the exception for a lot of things, so…” she trails off.

Quinn nods, feeling both the trust and the warning: don’t fuck it up.

“Okay, so, what’s the plan?”

Santana shrugs and smirks. “Cocktails. Then bed. Then I’ll order a pizza or something if you’re hungry.”

“Very seductive. I’m so turned on,” Quinn answers sarcastically.

“You will be. You’re easy,” Santana reaches out and trails a hand from her shoulder down her bicep, and Quinn feels the touch all over her body. She breathes deeply, suppressing the little shiver of arousal the touch produces.

“Am not,” she returns feebly, as Santana turns to open the liquor cabinet.

“What’re you in the mood for?” she asks, shuffling through the bottles.

Quinn shrugs. “I don’t know. You don’t have beer?”

“Yeah, but. Figured you might want the harder stuff.”

“I…don’t know.” Quinn thinks about it. Alcohol has always made it easier for her to be brave. It gives her an excuse, in a way, even though this has all been plotted out before. But if she were drunk…how would she be reasonably expected to resist Santana’s advances? “I mean, sure. One drink. Do you have gin?”

“Yeah,” Santana pulls down a bottle of Bombay, holding it up for Quinn’s approval. Quinn nods.

Santana has lime to make herself a mojito, so Quinn just gets her gin with tonic, on the rocks, with lime. And a hefty portion of gin. Go big or go home, she thinks.

Santana proposes a toast. “To your marriage, and to mine.”

It’s a weird thing, given the circumstances, but she knows Santana sees this as good for Rachel. So she agrees and returns the toast.

They chat about the new essay Quinn’s been making progress on as they savor their drinks. Quinn’s written about coming out before, but this one is specifically about her mother’s assertion when she first came out that her divorce from Quinn’s father made her gay. It had hurt at the time, but it’s been long enough that Quinn finds the whole thing hilarious now.

“Won’t your mom be mad that you’re writing about this?”

“I think she can laugh about it now, too. I’ve been out for so long, and she adores Rachel.”

Santana nods. “I guess. Even my _abuela_ came around eventually. But we don’t like to talk about it.”

“Kinda hard to avoid when you’re gay married,” Quinn twists her mouth sympathetically.

“Agreed,” Santana grimaces. She shakes her head. “Britt told her mom about us being open. Her mom was weirdly supportive of it. I can’t even imagine telling my parents.”

There’s a painful gnawing in Quinn’s chest as she thinks about it. “I could _never_ tell my mom about this. Not after what my dad did to her. You know, with what’s her name. His second wife.”

“The ‘tattooed freak?’” Santana grins.

“Yeah.” They lapse into a thoughtful silence.

“Well,” Santana smiles, “There are things parents don’t need to know. Like how wet it makes Britts to hear about me finger fucking a near-stranger in a bathroom stall at a gay bar.”

Quinn blushes, hard. “Please tell me I’m not the subject of dirty talk between you and your wife.”

“I plead the fifth,” Santana smirks. She leans forward, “But it totally drives Brittany crazy when I tell her how hungry you are for my pussy. How you moan when you bury your face in it.”

A flood of warmth travels down Quinn’s body. She chases it with a big sip of her gin and tonic. “Is that so?” is all she can think of to say.

“You were there. I just wish I’d had a chance to find out how wet it made you, making me come against your mouth.”

Quinn takes another big sip, finishing the drink, and sets her glass down, licking her lips. “Well. Perhaps tonight.”

Santana’s not quite finished with hers, but she recognizes the opportunity. She sets down her drink and stands. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“Bedroom.”

“On your _marriage_ bed?!”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Chill. Fresh sheets.”

“Still. That’s fucked up.”

Santana reclines on the bed. “This whole situation is fucked up, Quinn. So just fuck me already.”

It doesn’t take much wrestling with her uncertainty for Quinn to give in. And this time, she is keenly aware of the fact that she _does_ moan when her lips close around Santana’s clit, and Santana learns firsthand just how wet doing that _does_ make Quinn.

Afterwards, Santana is smiling triumphantly, licking at her lips and wiping at her chin. Quinn tries to collect her thoughts. She’d almost forgotten how incredible oral could feel. And when she closed her eyes, she could drift away just enough to memories of sex with Rachel that it didn’t feel all that illicit.

Humming happily, Santana strides out of the bedroom to pick up her glass and have another drink of her mojito. She comes back in, leaning nude against the doorframe, regarding Quinn. “Hungry?’ she asks.

Quinn sweeps her hair out of her eyes. “Um. Not really. I’m going to the bathroom.”

In the bathroom, she washes her face and hands, and puts her hair back into a semblance of order. Once out, she starts putting back on her clothes, while Santana watches, sitting totally nude on a kitchen chair, finishing her drink.

As Quinn checks her appearance again in the bedroom mirror, Santana asks, “What, leaving already?”

“Yes.”

Santana frowns, obviously a little disappointed. “I thought you might stay.”

“I didn’t think you were much of a cuddler.”

“Well, no, not with you. But, I dunno. I thought we might hang out a bit, too.”

“Another time,” Quinn says, “I just want to get home. I want to keep the times I’m out all night rare. They’re suspicious. If nothing else, they’ll make Rachel think I have an alcohol problem.”

“I get it,” Santana mutters soberly. “Alright, well, I’ll probably see you tomorrow. I think Britts and I are coming by in the evening to hang out with Rachel.”

“Alright,” Quinn says briskly. She stops at the front door, hesitating. As much as she’s mentally wrestling with all of this, she turns and says, “And, you know. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Santana smiles, looking cocky again.

Quinn goes home and kisses her drowsy wife, trying not to think of where her mouth was an hour ago.

 

For awhile, Quinn exists in a cycle of guilt and need.

She _knows_ cheating on Rachel is wrong, but she also knows she _needs_ it, and that Santana is enjoying the affair for her own reasons. They’re good in bed together, definitely, and Santana maintains that this is for Rachel’s benefit. Quinn, usually, almost believes her. It’s weird, that out of everyone, she trusts Santana with this. They spent years trying to knock each other down, but, Quinn supposes, that’s exactly why they trust each other. They’ve channeled all their power struggles through the years into the bedroom.

They’re discreet. The meet at Santana’s apartment when they can, they go to a hotel a few times when Brittany has too much work to do to meet up with a guy, or doesn’t feel like staying over or late with one (Quinn tries to be conscious of the fact that she can’t let her needs get in the way of Brittany and Santana’s relationship, so she lets Santana know when her libido is roaring, and lets the two of them work out the other details). She doesn’t stay over, though she is getting used to the situation a little more, and she and Santana do spend some time chatting afterwards now. They don’t talk about it unless they’re alone, they keep all texts completely innocuous. Quinn is almost grateful for all the years she trained under Sue Sylvester. She’s gotten very good at keeping stoic when she needs to.

As the third year since Rachel’s diagnosis starts to draw to a close, she gets a call. Quinn is home, cooking, and is alerted to something by Kurt’s squeal. She drops her spoon and turns off the stove burner before running into the living room. Quinn looks around in a panic. Kurt is kneeling in front of Rachel, his hands clasped together. Rachel clutches the phone clumsily against her ear, her hand shaking worse than ever. Quinn searches for the tragedy; she’d been sure Rachel had fallen or choked or something. She catches Beck’s eyes. He holds a finger to his lips and looks back at Rachel.

“Yes. Yes, okay. I’m extremely flattered.” Her voice is as quiet as ever, but the tone is unmistakable. It’s then that Quinn realizes that her hands are shaking not just from her illness, but from excitement. She stands and waits, barely breathing, as Rachel finishes her phone call.

“Is it true?!” Kurt asks, his voice in probably the highest register Quinn has ever heard.

“It’s true,” Rachel confirms. She meets Quinn’s eye. “I’m going to receive a special lifetime Tony award next month.”

Quinn sits down weakly. “A Tony?”

“Yes,” Rachel smiles, her eyes welling with unshed tears. Kurt lifts a tissue up to her face to catch them before they fall. Quinn is dazed. Rachel had been nominated many times, but never quite won. And now…

Quinn can’t help it. She cries, too.

 

The next month is such a whirlwind, preparing for the event, that Quinn really doesn’t have time for a rendezvous with Santana. There is press about the special award, and people want to talk to Rachel. Brittany does a special on Rachel for her blog, which turns out to be the biggest piece of media about her award; for many reasons, Rachel can’t grant a lot of interviews.

But there’s lots to prepare. Her outfit; Kurt begins to work on something for her immediately. Her speech. Quinn helps her with that, at least until Rachel waves her away and tells her she may not be a professional writer, but she’s been practicing acceptance speeches since she was three. They arrange to get her fathers and Quinn’s mother into town, they arrange all the logistics of Rachel’s physical needs with the event coordinators.

By the night before the Tony Awards, Quinn is a horny mess. Santana and Brittany are actually staying over, so she gets out of bed early and knocks on the guest room door.

Brittany answers, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired and completely topless. “Yeah?” she asks.

Quinn averts her eyes. “Would you mind sliding in bed with Rachel for a bit until she wakes up? I need to borrow your wife for a bit.”

“Sure,” Brittany starts to head toward the master bedroom, but Quinn stops her.

“Britt? Put on a shirt, please?”

Brittany looks down at herself and her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, damn. Sorry, Quinn.” She goes back into the bedroom to throw on a shirt. Quinn knows she’s blushing, and feels the way even the sight of Brittany’s nearly-nude body sends a flood of heat down her body.

She shakes Santana as Brittany leaves the room. “Get up,” she mutters.

“What the fuck?” Santana asks. “Ugh. What?”

“Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” To her credit, Santana starts to dress quickly.

“To get breakfast.” Quinn tries not to stare at Santana’s breasts as she twists her bra around to cover them.

“What?” Santana lifts a shirt over her head.

“You heard me. Come on.”

“Jesus. Hold on,” she pulls on her jeans.

They go down to the garage, but Quinn opens the back seat, and shoves Santana into it. She climbs on top. “I need you to fuck me, right now. Then we will actually go get breakfast, but…” she trails off.

“Holy shit, woman,” Santana breathes. She looks a lot more awake now. “We’re at your house,” she points out.

“The master bedroom is on the other side of the house from here. And we’ll be quiet. I just need this and everything’s been so crazy lately…”

“I got you,” Santana says, reaching between their bodies to deftly unbutton Quinn’s jeans. Quinn sighs with ecstasy at the first touch of Santana’s fingers. “Jesus Christ, Quinn,” Santana breathes, her fingers sliding easily through Quinn’s wetness. “You don’t even need any warming up.”

“Wet dream,” Quinn explains, “Nearly came in my sleep.” It’s embarrassing to admit. It had been about Rachel, sort of, but also Santana, sort of. Some mix of the two.

“Damn,” Santana breathes. Quinn meets her eye for a moment, surprised that her admission seems to actually turn Santana on. Quinn pushes up Santana’s shirt, pulling down her bra to latch her mouth onto a nipple. Santana allows it for a moment before pulling Quinn back up to her face. She kisses her, once, then says, “Stay here so I can actually touch you without you snapping my hand off at the wrist.”

“Sorry,” Quinn murmurs, keeping her balance with one hand while her other plays with Santana’s nipple.

It really doesn’t take long. Santana dips her fingers down further to press two into Quinn, but just for a moment, just to get Quinn to behave, before she’s back to stroking Quinn’s clit with wet fingers. Quinn keeps her composure by whimpering into Santana’s shoulder and eventually, stifling even her quiet moans against it as she comes.

“Shit,” Santana murmurs, “That was crazy hot.”

“We’re not even done,” Quinn murmurs, reaching between their bodies to unbutton Santana’s pants.

“You sure we have time?”

“Yeah. You sure you can be quiet?”

“Yeah,” Santana assures. She’s soaked, too, and Quinn still feels the crazy thrill of it all as she touches her, the madness of doing this _in her own home_ , while Rachel sleeps, upstairs.

It’s not until after Santana comes, they rebutton themselves and each use a Handi Wipe before heading out that Quinn thinks how stupid and risky it all was. And how disrespectful.

They drive to a local diner and order several to go boxes of eggs and pancakes and hashbrowns and biscuits and oatmeal. It’s stuff Quinn could easily make at home, but greasy restaurant food seems like a good way to start the day, and Rachel can handle most of it. They each wash their hands in the bathroom at the diner while they wait for their order to be put together.

When they get back, Brittany is just guiding Rachel down the stairs on her railing chair for breakfast. Rachel’s eyes brighten when she sees Quinn and Santana come in with bags of greasy diner food. “You brought breakfast?”

“Yeah. I know you miss going out for breakfast, so I brought it to you.”

“I’ll start coffee,” Santana says, as Quinn takes Rachel from Brittany to get her from the railing chair onto her wheelchair.

She kisses her, “How are you feeling?”

Rachel beams, and for a moment, looks almost the same as she did when Quinn met her. “I’m great. I’m beyond excited, and my pain today is very minimal.”

Quinn presses her forehead to Rachel’s for a moment, closing her eyes and relishing the simple contact. Rachel is still smiling, gazing at her with loving eyes, when she straightens and they approach the table.

They feast on as much delicious diner food as they can, and by the end of it, Rachel’s huge grin is back. “Thank you,” she says.

“It’s not much,” Quinn shrugs, “But I wanted to make your big day special, and this was much easier than trying to cook all of this myself.”

The rest of the day is a blur. Kurt comes to help Rachel dress and prepare. Quinn goes to the airport to pick up Rachel’s dads and her mom. Everyone gets dressed at Quinn and Rachel’s house, even Mike, and they have a driver take them all to the ceremony.

Rachel is fabulous in her wheelchair, and her entourage of friends and family warms Quinn’s heart. The ceremony itself is nice, sort of. Quinn recognizes a few of Rachel’s former costars and acquaintances, but aside from her wife’s work, she isn’t really invested in Broadway culture.

Then, onto the stage steps Jesse St. James. “Tonight, we honor one of Broadway’s greats. I’ve known she belonged here since she was fifteen years old. She’s a three-time Tony nominee and we are all devastated that ALS has locked away her talent. Tonight, we present a lifetime achievement award to Ms. Rachel Berry.”

Rachel, beaming, though in the bright light it looks more like a grimace, takes the stage, wheeling out to a swell of music, a medley of some of her best numbers. The podium is high, too high, so Jesse takes the microphone and kneels next to her, holding it. She tries to take it from him, her hands shaking with adrenaline and weakness, but Jesse merely places himself behind the podium as much as possible and holds the microphone for her, a prop, as unobtrusive as he’s ever managed to be.

As Rachel begins her speech, Quinn feels like she’s fading away. It’s almost like a panic attack, the way she seems to drift away, the way her throat feels blocked. But it’s not, not really. She’s overwhelmed by every other emotion. Pride. Adoration. Guilt. Grief. Anger. Fear. But most of all, love. Love for the woman who can’t stand at the podium, whose voice shakes and words slur, but who completely commands the attention of the entire room, who mesmerizes everyone with her beauty and grace, even nearly completely stationary.

Love and loss overwhelm Quinn to the point that she barely takes in any of Rachel’s speech.

It isn’t a long speech. But Quinn really only tunes in for the end, and it’s because she must.

“And finally, thank you to my amazing wife, Quinn. Without you support, I don’t know where I’d be. I know none of our marriage is ideal right now, but your unwavering loyalty, your steadfast love, is sometimes all I feel like I can cling to. You’re still the prettiest girl I’ve ever met, and I’m truly blessed to have found true love with you for as much of my life as I’ll get to live.”

Quinn bursts into tears.

To anyone watching, they’re tears of love and pride. Only Santana, who looks at her anxiously, knows the truth.

They’re tears of guilt.


	5. Your blood, your bones

They don’t linger after the ceremony; the whole experience is exhausting for everyone, particularly Rachel. They head home promptly, all together. Rachel’s dads and Quinn’s mom are planning to stay overnight at the house; Quinn is surprised that Judy would willingly sleep on the couch. Mike, Kurt, Beck, Brittany and Santana all come back to gather their belongings before heading home.

Santana and Brittany linger, so long that Quinn wonders if they’re going to miss the last train back to Manhattan. Quinn gets everyone settled into bed, including Rachel. Brittany and Santana make a show of helping to get everyone settled, finding bath towels, hangers, extra pillows, anything else the guests might need, even though by now, Quinn’s and Rachel’s parents know where everything is.

Quinn agrees to drive them to the train station. It’s not far, but it’s safer and quicker. They get in, and Santana immediately says, “You can’t feel guilty.”

“Are you stupid?” Quinn hisses, “She lauded me for my goddamn _fidelity_ in front of the entire country. Entire _world_. This would _break_ her.”

“I’m pretty sure losing you would break her even more,” Santana says sharply, “Didn’t you listen? It wasn’t your fidelity. It was your loyalty. And you are loyal to her. You stay and do everything she needs you to do. She doesn’t need you to have sex with her anymore.”

“That doesn’t give me any excuse to have it with anyone else.”

“ _Yes it does_ ,” Santana says sharply, angrily, “It does if it gives you the strength to _stay loyal to her_ , which _it does_. We both know this! We _all_ know this!”

“It ends now,” Quinn snarls, “I can’t do this. I can’t risk her finding out. The worst thing I could do to a dying woman is betray her.”

“Fine,” Santana throws up her hands, “Fine, it’s over. Whatever you want.”

“Quinn,” Brittany says softly, “Don’t you think that, if the roles were reversed, you would let her do this?”

Quinn’s heart constricts, and in that moment all she can think is how much she _wishes_ she could switch places with Rachel, wishes she could do _something_ like that to keep her alive. She thinks about being Rachel, fighting illness, lacking a libido, and… _would she care_?

It strikes her, then, that Rachel would probably do it. Rachel would seek sex elsewhere, but the difference between them is, Rachel would ask permission first.

It doesn’t make Quinn feel any better.

“I’d let her,” she croaks, then shrugs, “But I haven’t been hurt by cheating the same way she has. No one I truly cared about ever cheated on me. She can’t say the same.” She shakes her head, “I can’t do it anymore, Santana. I really can’t.”

“Like I said,” Santana voice is softer now, less frustrated, “Whatever you need. We’ll be here, whatever you need.”

Quinn nods tightly, keenly aware that at least, with Santana, there’s no vengeful ex-lover to spitefully reveal the truth to Quinn’s wife. No doubt the situation was the best she could have asked for.

 

The next two months are so busy that Quinn barely has time to pay attention to her libido.

They’re moving Rachel downstairs, permanently.

The chair installed on the railing that she’s been using to navigate the stairs works okay, but part of the problem is that Rachel’s motorized wheelchair stays on the first floor. She uses an old-fashioned one upstairs, but it’s nearly impossible for her to push it on her own. Not that she wanders the upstairs alone a lot, but it does make it a little harder for others to move her around, too.

So they’re getting a hospital bed, and putting it in the living room. Rachel often has to sleep propped up anyway, now, to help with her breathing in the night, and the hospital bed will be easier than pillows.

Quinn already knows that upstairs bed is going to feel too empty without Rachel, and plans to sleep on the couch next to Rachel herself. Their old bedroom can be another guest room.

Getting the hospital bed and getting everything situated to Rachel’s liking takes time. They arrange everything so that Rachel is comfortable. She doesn’t want to spend all day in bed—she insists she’s not to that point yet—but she often does, because she’s often exhausted.

They also invest in a speech tablet. Rachel’s voice is still audible and still intelligible, but they know it’s fading fast. They get her the tablet so she can practice with it, keep up with conversations on it. Already there have been times when Rachel has resorted to hand-writing things she can’t seem to get out of her mouth clearly, but her handwriting has been getting more and more difficult to read as her hands lose more coordination.

It’s lonely, sleeping on the couch in the same room as Rachel. They haven’t cuddled in bed during the night as much, not since Rachel has had to start sleeping propped up, but Quinn knows she always falls asleep with her hand touching somewhere on Rachel’s body, a physical reassurance of her presence, her life. Quinn can hear her rasping breaths across the room, but it isn’t the same. She finds herself getting up several times in the night, just to look at Rachel, and to kiss her forehead. Rachel usually barely wakes, just enough to give Quinn a smile. Quinn wipes the drool off Rachel’s chin—she’s begun to salivate a lot more, and in her sleep especially, she can’t control it—and heads back to bed, listening to her wife.

It doesn’t help that these big changes seem to put Rachel into a state of despair for a bit.

It’s as if her body was holding out, staying strong for her Tony award, and now that it’s passed, it’s relaxed, and degraded. Rachel is frustrated that the mouth that delivered a passionate speech only months before now stumbles and slurs so often that the computer is simply easier. Rachel is despondent that she’s confined to the first floor.

In short, Rachel seems to be losing her optimism, and honestly, Quinn can’t really blame her.

They try to make sure there’s still a lot of joy in Rachel’s life. Her friends come over often, there’s good conversation, there’s music. Rachel reads a lot, but even her choices in books trouble Quinn: things like _The Hours_ and _Angels in America_ and other stories that deal with mortality, and grief, and loss.

Rachel’s shift in mood does slow Quinn’s libido for awhile, and for a few months, it’s easy to feel like Quinn made the correct and noble choice ending things with Santana.

But as Rachel adjusts to the new reality of her life, a reality in which the things about herself she leaned on, because they still worked, have failed her, she slowly begins to regain her optimism. Doctors think she might still have a few years of life left, and Rachel resolves to make the best of them, even though her capabilities are limited.

“My mind still works,” she makes the tablet say, “And I think it has more songs and stories in it.”

Brittany helps her start cataloguing her life in a series of interviews. Kurt still helps her make music. Everyone has some way to help her keep her mind active, even if it’s just watching good movies together and talking about them. Quinn starts keeping a Moleskine in her back pocket, and writes down all of the sentences Rachel says that touch her. Words she’ll be able to look back on one day, for comfort.

 

The more content Rachel grows with the state of her life, the more Quinn’s libido grows with it, until, three months after Rachel is moved downstairs, Quinn is back to sneaking into her office for some alone time.

After four months, she’s forced to concede to Santana, during one of the outings with her and Brittany, that she’s starting to lose her mind again.

Santana sits back, looking strangely smug. Brittany smacks her lightly, “Don’t gloat,” she admonishes, “Just because you knew Quinn wouldn’t be able to keep away doesn’t mean you should make her feel bad about it.”

“Sex always wins out, in the end,” Santana says, but her expression is more empathetic now. She regards Quinn seriously, “Are you sure you’re not going to have a freak out when we get back into this thing?”

Quinn hesitates, because she isn’t sure. But it’s been months since she’s had sex, Rachel’s condition has made her life more stressful, and right now, everything Santana has said over the past year or so about this being good for Rachel seems to make more sense than ever before. “I’m sure,” Quinn says, dropping her voice. “I _need_ this.”

Santana nods. “I get it.”

“I feel ridiculous. It’s only been four months.”

“You’re going through a lot. Sex helps with stress,” Brittany says reasonably.

Quinn concedes the point. “And I guess knowing that I have a way to get satisfaction makes it harder to hold back. At least it’s with someone I can actually trust.”

“Absolutely,” Santana says sincerely. She checks her phone, “I’ll text you…probably this weekend, and we’ll take care of you, okay?”

Quinn nods. Even half a week feels too long to wait at this point, but the resolution satisfies her.

“This isn’t sex winning out,” Brittany says, frowning as if it’s just occurred to her. “This is love winning out.”

Santana turns her gaze to Quinn. “That’s true.”

“You have the most will of anyone I know, Quinn,” Brittany says, “For you to need it this badly…it must be too hard for anyone.”

Quinn looks away. She doesn’t feel like she has any willpower. She feels weak. She thinks back to when she was in high school, and in the Celibacy Club, and wants to laugh, imagining what that girl would think of her now. But, she supposes, back then she wasn’t depriving herself of anything she really wanted. She’d had no interest in boys, and not enough self-awareness to identify her interest in girls.

It’s always easier to give up something you don’t know the pleasures of. And, by God, if she were able to have the pleasure of that intimacy with Rachel right now…

It’s the sex she misses, sure. But also the intimacy. Which, she supposes, is also why Santana is as good as substitute as she can get. They’re close, and they understand each other. It isn’t love that passes between them when they get off together, but it’s intimacy. Respect. Friendship.

Finally, she looks at Brittany, and thinks about Rachel’s poor, broken body, and all the things it can’t do. And Rachel’s mind, still firing on all cylinders, still able to help her do most things she enjoys—except sex. Except that her libido died long ago, and Rachel has no interest in bringing it back.

“It _is_ hard,” Quinn finally says softly, “She doesn’t do it on purpose, but every day, she rejects me in the tiniest, most unconscious ways. I don’t hold it against her, most of the time, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Brittany nods soberly. “Do what you need to do to stay with her.”

It really is that simple.

 

The affair resumes. Brittany blesses it by staying out of the way at times, so that they can enjoy it. The first night that she and Santana have sex again, Quinn cries so hard afterwards that Santana forces her to stay the night.

In other cases, this might be considered pillow talk, but to Quinn, it feels more like a sleepover. She and Santana lay in bed together, facing each other, while Quinn spills out all the conflicting feelings she’s having about Rachel’s slow demise.

“You can’t keep all this shit locked up in your head,” Santana scowls. She grasps Quinn’s hand under the covers for a moment, but then pulls back awkwardly. She’s never been good at comforting people.

“I know,” Quinn sighs, dabbing her teary eyes with the pillowcase. “But I know I’m not the only one grieving. It seems selfish to make the rest of you deal with my feelings, too.”

Santana rolls her eyes, “Then see a damn therapist if that’s your concern. Though, I’ll point out you didn’t have any trouble unloading on me just now, and look, I’m here, and I’m fine.”

She really should be seeing a therapist, Quinn thinks. She briefly remembers that support group, for spouses of ALS patients. She went a few times in the early days, but it hadn’t seemed real yet, hadn’t been so terrifying, so she stopped going.

She wonders, briefly, what would have happened if she’d kept going. Would she be sleeping with someone in the same position as her, someone with a dying spouse at home, if she had?

She’s glad that’s not the case. Too much of a chance for romantic entanglement. That was never a risk with Santana.

“Maybe I should,” Quinn says quietly.

“Maybe,” Santana says sarcastically. “I’m no psychiatrist, but I’m pretty sure what you’re feeling is normal. You’re grieving. But you do need to talk about it.” She gets out of bed. “I’m going to text Kurt and tell him you’re staying here. I can either tell him you had a breakdown or that you had too much to drink. Your call.”

“Drink,” Quinn says immediately. It’s easier to explain away, and it’s been awhile since they’ve used that excuse.

Santana nods absently, tapping away at her phone. Quinn takes a moment to look at her. Memories of Rachel are blurring somewhat; her body looks so much different now that when Quinn tries to think about it, it melds with Santana’s somewhat. She supposes they do have similar builds. Rachel’s legs were better, she knows. Longer. Suppler. But Santana’s abs and breasts are a little more impressive, she thinks.

She’s a bit ashamed that her memories are beginning to get confused. She supposes that’s what she gets for having a type.

Santana turns and walks into the kitchen, and Quinn stares at her ass. She honestly can’t remember whose is better.

She falls asleep easily. She doesn’t even need to reach out to touch Santana to find comfort.

 

The next morning, Brittany wakes them up by sliding into bed next to Santana.

“Mph. Oh, hey, babe, good morning.” Quinn hears the sound of a light kiss as she opens her eyes. She glances over to see Brittany’s blue eyes regarding her coolly over Santana’s shoulder and she jerks, covering herself more fully with her blanket.

“You guys have a good night?” Brittany asks, perfectly cheerful.

“Yeah,” Santana responds, “But we have to get Quinn to a therapist.”

“You can talk to me,” Brittany says instantly, “I have a recurring advice tag on my blog. I’m good at it.”

“I don’t really need…advice,” Quinn twists her mouth.

“Half of good advice is good listening,” Brittany says, “I’ll listen.”

Quinn glances at Santana, who gazes proudly at Brittany. She shrugs, “Yeah. I think you’d be more of a comfort than Santana.”

Santana scowls. “For that, you have to get out of bed and let Brittany take a look at you.”

Quinn turns so red she’s sure it’s spread all down her chest. “What? No!”

Santana and Brittany dissolve into laughter, but then in a low voice, Brittany murmurs, “Did she do that thing again?”

“The moan? Oh, yeah,” Santana smirks, “You wouldn’t believe how wet it got her, too,” she finishes lowly.

“I’m _right here_ ,” Quinn growls, feeling impossibly redder.

“That’s hot,” Brittany murmurs, gazing at Quinn with an expression Quinn has never seen before.

“Okay,” she says loudly, “I’m going to leave before the threesome invitation is even issued. Because, no.”

“I was about to tell you to leave,” Santana says in a tight voice, eyes not leaving Brittany, “Because I think Britts needs my help with something.”

“Very subtle,” Quinn rolls her eyes, then steps out of bed, gathering her clothes as quickly as she can to cover herself. She glances over her shoulder to find two sets of eyes on her. “Oh, stop,” she waves them away.

“You sure are modest for an ex-Cheerio,” Santana observes, “And for someone who had her face buried in my pussy less than twelve hours ago. Moaning.”

Quinn drops her clothes and spreads her arms, “Happy?” she demands.

The attention they gave her actually feels _good_.

“Yep,” Brittany says softly, “I’m happy.”

“Good,” Quinn smiles, “See you two at the house later?”

“Definitely,” Santana smiles back, then tilts her head up to kiss Brittany.

Quinn leaves the apartment before any actual sex starts. At least, she thinks so.

 

Quinn knows she’s spending noticeably more time “out with Santana and Brittany,” but she can’t bring herself to care. There’s an escape in those moments when she and Santana are writhing together, naked, wet and wanting. There’s an escape in their talks afterwards, and in her talks with Brittany. She’s making time for those, too, and Brittany is surprisingly good at listening and making Quinn feel better.

She makes sure she still has plenty of time with Rachel, and they have a lot of fun together, and talk a lot. It’s her writing that’s suffering. She’s only finished that one essay about coming out to her mother lately. It was well-received, but she knows she needs to write something else new soon.

One day, about seven months into the fourth year of diagnosis, she and Rachel are sitting together, watching a new movie musical, when Rachel’s tablet abruptly speaks, “I miss singing.”

Quinn glances at her, and reaches a hand out to touch hers. “I miss your singing,” she says honestly.

“I miss dancing, too, but not as much.”

Quinn smiles. “I miss turning on the pop radio and dancing with you in my arms,” she says wistfully.

“Dance with me?” Rachel asks.

Quinn gazes at her uncertainly, “Wheelchair?” she asks.

“Unless you think you can hold me up,” Rachel smiles to show she’s not being serious.

Quinn considers it. Rachel is very tiny and light, but without the help of her muscles to keep her standing, Quinn doubts her ability to keep her upright. “Wheelchair,” she says, and moves it over by Rachel’s bed.

Though the mechanics are different with a motorized wheelchair—less graceful than the wheelchair dance they learned in high school—she and Rachel dance around the living room, laughing.

Quinn kisses her after they still. She kisses her softly, slowly. She pulls back, kneeling before Rachel.

“I miss being your equal,” Rachel says, with her real voice. It’s barely audible, and Quinn almost can’t understand it.

When she does, she blurts the first thing to come to her mind, “I miss sex.”

Rachel’s mouth twists in a wry smile, and she nods once, then gestures weakly back toward her bed. Quinn gets her back into bed, uncertain what to expect. Rachel picks up her speaking tablet.

“I thought you might,” the speaking tablet mimics the timbre of Rachel’s voice, enough so that Quinn is often able to pretend that it’s a slightly monotone Rachel speaking. She barely thinks about it anymore. “I should have realized a lot earlier how much you would miss little things like that.”

Quinn shrugs, feeling ashamed, “It’s not a big deal,” she says quietly, “Not compared to what you’re going through.”

“It is a big deal,” Rachel returns, fixing Quinn with a hard look, “We both have had to adjust and grieve and make peace with a lot over the years.” Rachel shakes her head, “Just because my sex drive died when I became sick enough to need you to take care of me doesn’t mean that yours would, too. I should have realized that.”

“I still love you,” Quinn reassures, because she isn’t sure what Rachel is worrying about here.

“I know you do. You wouldn’t stay if you didn’t,” Rachel smiles, “But I assumed you were no longer interested in me once you had to take care of me. It changed things between us. And I no longer felt attractive or sexual anyway. But what I didn’t think about was that you would still need sex, even if you couldn’t have it with me.”

“I don’t need it,” Quinn says quickly. The conversation is rapidly heading somewhere she doesn’t want it to go. “I just miss it, that’s all.”

Rachel shakes her head, “You need it. You’re a healthy adult. I can’t be the one to give it to you anymore—not that you’d want me to,” Quinn opens her mouth to protest, but finds she can’t, and closes it again. Rachel nods once, understanding. “So I’ve been thinking, and I want to offer you something. You don’t have to tell me whether you want it or not, you don’t have to tell me whether you accept it or not, but I just want to offer it.”

There’s a long pause, as Rachel’s body tenses. Finally, Quinn murmurs, “What are you saying?”

Rachel closes her eyes briefly, and then looks at Quinn, and her expression softens. It’s with a small smile that she says, “Have sex with someone else. Anyone. You deserve to still have joy and intimacy in your life. And as long as you’re still my wife, til death do us part…I can’t control that part of you, and I won’t.”

Quinn recognizes the pain with which Rachel makes this offer, so she does the only thing she can think of to soothe her wife’s pain. She scoffs, “I would never do that to you,” she lies to her wife’s face, and leans over and kisses her softly on the forehead.

Rachel is smiling peacefully when Quinn pulls back. “The offer is on the table,” Rachel insists. Quinn just shakes her head.

What should make her feel better just makes her feel worse.


	6. Your voice, and your ghost

Out for drinks with Santana and Brittany a few nights later, Quinn shares quietly what Rachel told her.

Santana spreads her hands, “So that’s it, then. It’s what we’ve been saying all along. That part of your marriage doesn’t matter anymore, so you can stop worrying.”

Quinn shakes her head, “But I am still worried. You didn’t see her face, Santana. This wasn’t something she wanted to give me.”

“To be fair,” Santana says gently, “Rachel’s expression looks hurt most of the time these days.”

That part is true, but Quinn knows what she saw. “Even so. Now that I have permission, I feel like an asshole that I couldn’t wait for permission.”

Santana throws up her hands, “There’s no way to win with you, is there? There’s nothing that would make you happy. Come on, Quinn. Going without sex for almost four years with all the stress and hormones in your body right now? Dream on.”

Quinn stares at the table. Brittany says, “You can’t take what she told you as retroactive permission?”

“No,” Quinn sighs, “I pretended to not even be interested in her offer to me, but now I feel even more like I’m deceiving her. She gave me a chance to open up, and I was too cowardly to take it.”

“It’s not too late,” Brittany shrugs, “If you want to.”

Quinn considers it. Maybe Rachel was offering this out of love, maybe Santana is right, and her expression had nothing to do with any emotional pain.

Quinn really has no idea what to do, except what she has been doing: sleep with Santana, and keep it a secret.

 

Rachel doesn’t bring up her offer again, so Quinn doesn’t say anything either. But having permission now still doesn’t sit right with her, because her behavior hasn’t changed. It would be easier to ask for forgiveness, she thinks, than to treat Rachel’s permission as one that would stretch back years.

But ultimately, there are bigger things to worry about.

By the end of year four, Rachel is more or less bedridden, and they’ve starting hiring nurses to help her. She’s begun using a catheter because her body can no longer reliably hold her bladder; indeed, she can barely tell when it’s full. Her hands are weaker, making her stumble over the words on her speaking tablet. Her face is slack, the same strained expression on it most of the time.

But she’s happy, reasonably so, because she’s still working on her projects—her music with Kurt, her life story with Brittany.

And because she’s still married to Quinn.

She tells Quinn every day that she’s so grateful for her love, and Quinn, heart swelling, tells her she’ll always have all her love.

One day, after Quinn says this, Rachel fixes her with a strange look.

“What?” Quinn asks.

“I’ve been thinking about when I’m gone,” Rachel replies.

Quinn shakes her head immediately, “No, don’t think about that,” she says soothingly, brushing Rachel’s hair off her forehead to plant a kiss right on the scar by her hairline.

Rachel actually rolls her eyes, “I think about it every day, Quinn. You can’t tell me not to think about what’s staring me in the face.”

“Sorry,” Quinn subsides, taking Rachel’s hand and squeezing softly. The fingers press back in a gentle, twitching squeeze.

“I’m not saying this to be morbid or anything,” Rachel says, “I’m not happy about it, but I’m not as sad and angry as I have been. And we’ve talked about some things. My will, my wishes. My paperwork is in order. You know that once I have the breathing machine, I don’t want to be on it for long. Just long enough for you all to say goodbye.” She fixes Quinn with a steady gaze, “I’m depending on you to pull the plug, when the time comes.”

Quinn swallows thickly, “I know all this,” she says, dully. Rachel’s death has been staring her in the face for just as long, but that doesn’t mean she thinks about it. A part of her still clings to the hope, the hope Rachel long since abandoned, that by some miracle, a cure for ALS will be found within the next year. She won’t allow herself to think past that, won’t allow herself to imagine what it might be like if the cure would just halt the progression of the disease instead of restoring Rachel her body.

Rachel nods, “It’s just that…Quinn, I want you to love me forever, because I believe I’ll love you forever, but I don’t want you to mourn forever.”

Quinn frowns, “How can I not?”

Rachel shakes her head stiffly, “I just mean…I know I won’t be the only love in your life. You’ll find someone else, after I die. I need to believe that you will.”

“Even if I do…I’ll always love and miss you,” Quinn says, “You’re the love of my life.”

It makes Rachel smile, and it makes Quinn feel strange. As much as she tries to imagine falling for someone else, right now, faced with Rachel, it seems impossible.

She knows she will, someday. But she’s not ready to consider it.

 

Quinn relies on the comfort of her friendship with benefits with Santana, of Brittany’s listening ear, and of the help and support of their other friends, as Rachel’s condition continues to get worse. It’s getting harder for all of them; Kurt almost always cries a bit on Quinn’s shoulder when he leaves. Quinn finds she needs the comfort of Santana’s body more, while Santana is sad enough that she finds it hard to participate, sometimes.

Rachel is nearing the end, and they all know it. Expecting it for years doesn’t make it all that much easier, it turns out.

A few months before what would be the sixth year since diagnosis, Rachel is put on a breathing machine. She can’t talk very well now; even using the tablet is an effort, but Quinn knows, by the look in her eyes, that she needs to be allowed to die, soon.

Quinn calls everyone they know—family, friends—to let them know they’ll need to come and say their final goodbyes. People come from all over; Puck and Mercedes even fly in from their respective California locations.

The house is pretty full of people for the next week. Some people want to be there as close to the end as possible, but most, when it comes down to it, don’t actually want to watch their friend die. They just want to say goodbye, tell her they love her, and attend the funeral.

It’s weird, to already know when Rachel’s funeral will be.

For Rachel’s comfort, the only people in the room when she is to be taken off her breathing machine are the people who have really been there—Quinn, Santana, Brittany, Kurt, Beck and her dads, as well as Rachel’s doctor, who, according to Rachel’s written request and once given Quinn’s verbal confirmation, will be allowed to administer a fatal injection and allow her to die with dignity. Quinn’s mom and Mike were allowed to be there, but both decided they did not want to watch the actual death.

Quinn is faced with Rachel, and thinks about all their conversations the last year or so. The way that Rachel wanted Quinn to be happy, to find joy and love in others.

The guilt that has been weighing on Quinn for years finally feels like it’s breaking her, and Quinn takes a deep breath, leaning close to Rachel. “I have something I want to tell you,” she says quietly. The room is mostly empty. The people in it will be able to forgive her, but it’s Rachel’s forgiveness she needs the most.

She stares at Rachel, tears blurring her vision, trying to find the words. Rachel is regarding her with a loving look, but Quinn’s throat is blocked.

Santana appears at her elbow and grabs her arm, “Excuse us for a moment, please, Rachel,” Santana murmurs, and then drags Quinn away from her dying wife’s bedside and into a bathroom.

“Pull yourself together,” Santana growls lowly, taking a tissue to Quinn’s face.

“What are you doing? Why did you stop me?” Quinn croaks.

“Because I knew what you were about to do. You can’t tell her about us.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Quinn says firmly.

“No, but it’s not entirely yours, either. For one thing, maybe Brittany and I don’t want to tell the others in the room about our arrangement. And also, you’re not telling Rachel for any reasons but selfish ones.”

“Bullshit. She deserves to know.”

“Why? Why does she need to know? You’ve stayed with her and loved her to the bitter end. Why does she need to know that you had to have sex with another woman in order to do that? Quinn, you’re not telling her for her own good, you want to tell her so you can live with yourself. And I’m not about to let you upset a dying woman who is about to fade away peacefully just so you can _unburden_ yourself. That’s fucking selfish. Let her die in peace. You had plenty of chances to tell her, and it’s cowardly that you waited until now, when she can’t even say anything back.” Quinn stares, unable to figure out what to say. Santana says quietly, “Sometimes there are secrets we have to take with us to our graves rather than let them hurt the people we love. Sometimes the greatest act of love is to keep that painful secret. And I won’t let you allow Rachel to take this knowledge to her grave.”

There isn’t a whole lot she can say to argue with that, and when they exit the bathroom, Santana leads her back to Rachel’s bedside, with what looks like a supportive hand on Quinn’s shoulder, but Quinn knows the hand is a warning.

Rachel smiles at her when she reappears. She smiles mostly with her eyes now, but her mouth can curl some, too. It’s one of the few things she can still do with her body, one of the only forms of communication she has left. Quinn smiles back at her, and Rachel’s eyes don’t leave her face.

“I just want to tell you how much I love you,” Quinn murmurs, “How much I’ll always love you.” She leans over and kisses Rachel’s still lips, trying to blink back tears, because she wants to see how it ends. She needs to see Rachel’s final moments.

“You can…let her pass,” Quinn murmurs awkwardly, not taking her eyes off of Rachel’s face. Rachel’s eyes close briefly, as if in pain and relief, and then the doctor is administering the injection. Rachel has always hated shots, but she can’t feel this one, so she just watches Quinn instead. Quinn watches her.

Quinn’s eyes don’t leave Rachel’s face for the entire time it takes her to…pass. She watches as Rachel’s face grows more slack, her eyelids droop. Her body, which has had an almost rigor mortis stiffness for almost a year now, seems to relax for a time as well.

The doctor records the time that her heart stops. The breathing tube is removed from her trachea. Somber morticians enter to gather up her tiny body.

As the bag zips over Rachel’s face, Quinn finally falls apart. Santana is there to catch her.

 

The funeral the next day is as much a celebration of Rachel as anyone can muster. Her ashes, in an urn, sit at the front of the room; Rachel had considered cremation to be a better environmental choice, despite Jewish tradition forbidding it. Though Rachel was not particularly religious, a rabbi comes and gives a very short semi-secular ceremony. And then, others have a chance to come up and tell their own stories about Rachel, and how she touched their lives. Afterwards, people stay, and drink, and listen to recordings of all of Rachel’s music, and watch slideshows of pictures from her life.

Finally, Kurt steps up to the microphone. Not too many people are left; mostly just those closest to Rachel and those who traveled the farthest to be there. He nods once, and Beck pauses Rachel’s music.

“Before she died,” Kurt starts softly, “Rachel and I worked on a lot of music that she was unable to record. She and I made specific plans for some of her songs, and this was one.” He locks eyes with Quinn, “This is a song I’ll sing for you.”

And Kurt begins to sing. He’s a bit out of practice, or maybe it’s just the day of crying that affects his voice. But it’s a love song. A song of love and loss and continuing life.

Halfway through the song, Kurt breaks. His voice squeaks to a stop, and a flood of fresh tears erupts. Beck approaches him carefully, swallows, and looks around, then continues singing the song himself, an octave lower. After pulling himself together, Kurt continues, and together, the two men sing a duet of Rachel’s love song, to Quinn.

Afterwards, Beck sends Quinn a recording of the song, but Quinn knows she’ll never be able to listen to it again. She’ll never forget it, anyway.

 

After the funeral, everyone goes home. The hospital bed is removed from the house. Quinn spends a few days going through Rachel’s things with friends and her fathers.

And, about a week later, she’s alone in her house.

Quinn barely knows what to do with herself.

She doesn’t come out of the house for several weeks. She accepts visits from Kurt, Beck and Brittany, but not Santana. If Santana is upset at being shut out, she doesn’t show it.

Quinn focuses on writing. There’s so much that has happened the past six years that the only way Quinn can come up with the excise the painful thoughts is to write them down. She writes in fragments, every little thing she can remember, and the more she writes, the more she sees a narrative flow.

She has written an essay, an essay about losing Rachel. An essay about what it’s like the be the one in the couple who enjoys life the least, having the watch the one who lives life to the fullest lose theirs first. An essay about the struggle of watching her marriage turn from a mutual love affair into a medical roleplay without the sexiness.

Without naming names, she writes briefly in the piece about her affair. About how it kept her sane.

Making it public will excise her guilt, she thinks.

 

Quinn sits on the essay for a long time, torn. But she at least starts leaving the house. She still doesn’t want to see Santana; the thought of Santana makes her heart hurt, makes her chest fill with guilt, like drowning.

But she sees Brittany sometimes, and finally, one day, after promising Santana won’t show up, Brittany convinces her to come out for a drink.

“How are you coping?” Brittany asks.

Quinn shrugs, “I’m the same,” she says, “Still…struggling. Still not sure what to do with my essay.”

“Are you going to let me read it?” Brittany asks.

“I can,” Quinn says carefully, “I just…don’t want Santana to see it. Not yet.”

“She’ll have to see it before you publish it,” Brittany says.

“I know,” Quinn responds, resigned. “I just…I’m angry at her, and I don’t know why.”

“You’re angry because you feel guilty. She stopped you from telling Rachel. She was right; there was no reason for you to tell Rachel on her deathbed. But you feel like, because of Santana, you were forced to keep something from the woman you love.”

“I…yeah. That actually sounds exactly right.” Quinn sighs, “I just feel like…Rachel gave me that permission, and I was too much of a coward to ever let her know how grateful I was for it. And how sorry I was for not waiting for it.”

Brittany watches Quinn for a long moment, until Quinn says, “What?”

“Did it ever occur to you that Rachel gave you that permission for a reason?”

Quinn’s brow furrows. “Well, yeah, she gave me permission because she wanted to make sure I would stay with her.”

“Obviously that,” Brittany agrees, “But you’d already stayed with her for so long by that point, it almost seems silly for her to offer her permission then.”

“Not…really? She still needed me to stay.”

“Just…think about this a second, Quinn. What I’m saying is, do you think Rachel gave you permission because she already _knew_ you were having sex with someone else?”

Quinn frowns, “How would she know?”

“She’s not stupid, Quinn,” Brittany says reasonably. “There were enough times that I showed up to help take care of her while you were off with my wife. Why would I be there and not with you two? Why would Santana be texting Kurt that you couldn’t come home, and not you? Even drunk, you’d want to tell Rachel yourself, unless you were trying to keep something from her.”

Quinn thinks about it and…“Oh, God. You think she knew?”

“I just know that Rachel is smart, and shrewd. And not matter how shrewd you are, I know Rachel is good at reading you.”

“Why wouldn’t she say something?”

“She did, when she gave you permission. And when you didn’t want to talk about it, she didn’t want to upset you further, so she didn’t push.” Brittany folds her arms, “Rachel was trying to protect you from the exact reaction you’re having right now. She didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

“How do you know this?”

“I don’t. It’s just my best guess. Rachel needed you to be her caretaker and her wife. By the time she gave you permission, it had been a long time since sexual exclusivity was as important to her as care and companionship and love. Rachel used to get crazy about cheating, I know that much. But she also knew the relationship changed. Maybe her permission came so late because she had to wrestle with her own feelings of sexual inadequacy. But she gave it to you, because she wanted you to be able to cope, so you could be there. She wanted you to do it to preserve the marriage as much as you did.”

Quinn digests this. She has no proof, but it seems entirely reasonably. She hugs Brittany before she leaves, thanks her, and spends that night through the next week thinking about the conversation.

 

Two weeks later, she sends the essay to Santana and Brittany for their approval. They’re both sure that anyone who knows Quinn well enough will be able to figure out who she was sleeping with, but they also are okay with the story being told, because it’s important, for the success story it tells about Quinn’s marriage, and for representation of open relationships.

She finally sees Santana, when she goes to their apartment to discuss the essay, and she hugs her, and finally thanks her for what had to be a difficult role—mourning the loss of a friend at the same time she was fucking her wife.

Quinn submits the essay to a few places, and it’s published in the Modern Love column in the New York Times first. Not long after, she's asked to come to the local NPR station to record a reading of her essay for This American Life.

After it appears in This American Life, the interviews start rolling in. Everyone wants to talk to her about Rachel, about caring for her, and about the paradox of cheating on her to stay with her. Quinn tells the story so many times and in so many ways that it starts to become boring, and she starts to joke that she’s glad she’s not interested in dating, because these interviews are ensuring she’ll never date again. But then, maybe that had been the goal of her essay, too, to seclude her.

As sure as Rachel was that Quinn would have another love, Quinn isn’t ready. She’s not sure she’ll ever be.

And strangely enough, she’s fine being celibate. For now.

 

“So,” Cat says as they sip coffee together, “I Googled you.”

Quinn’s spine straightens. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I knew you sounded familiar. You’re Rachel Berry’s wife.”

“Yeah,” Quinn says, a little warily, “That’s me.” Although it’s been a few years, and she’s written several other essays and even been on This American Life another time, she’s still best known for her essay about Rachel, for better or for worse.

Cat nods, smiling at her over her steaming cup, “I can’t believe it took me two dates to realize who you were.”

Quinn frowns, “Does it…bother you?”

“If it did, do you think I’d have shown up for our third date?”

“I guess not.”

“Well, it gives me perspective. You said you hadn’t dated in a few years—since her death, right?”

“Yeah,” Quinn confirms.

“That does make me a little nervous. I’ll never measure up to your wife, but…no one will. So I have to put that aside.”

“We’ll both put that aside. You’re different people, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like you. But that’s not what I’m most worried about. You know what happened? When my wife was sick?”

Cat waves a hand, “You’re talking about sleeping with your friend? Please. I’m not worried about that. The circumstances were way different. They don’t apply here. Besides, you’ve made me wait til the third date to get anywhere with you, so I know you’re not some nympho.”

Quinn smiles, slowly. “It is the third date,” she notes.

Cat grins, “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

Quinn leans back and regards the woman in front of her. She’s not Rachel. No one will ever be. But now, she thinks she knows what Rachel was trying to say.

She’ll always love Rachel. But her life didn’t end when Rachel’s did, and there’s room in her heart for someone else, as long as her heart keeps beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Title from David Bowie, “I’m Deranged,” and chapter titles from Wolf Parade, “I’ll Believe in Anything.”


End file.
